


Sentiment

by Syllis



Series: Seek To Mend [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Embedded Images, Explicit Embedded Images-- You Have Been Warned, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, NSFW Art, Romance, Thalmor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-10-21 01:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 94,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syllis/pseuds/Syllis
Summary: First Emissary Elenwen has somehow overlooked me. There has been no official acknowledgment of my arrival here in Skyrim. I have no officer; no duty assignment; no tasks. So far as anyone can discern, she has neglected to get my documents sent in. An oversight, understandable at a busy installation, with so many young Justiciars coming and going… A courier, not knowing, tried to so placate my mother.She became angry: “There is no way that she could forget about Cyrelian! He is her brother!”--Chapter (26) is SFW.Chapter (24)-(25) are NSFW. Cyrelian/Ahtar.Chapters (1)-(4), (12-13) and (15) NSFW. Cyrelian/Ahtar. Chapter (22-23) are Cyrelian/Erdi and later, Cyr/Ahtar.Chapters (5)-(11), (14) and (16-21) are SFW with mild fanservice in some.





	1. Cyrelian--Arrival in Skyrim: Thalmor Embassy 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian arrives at the Thalmor Embassy, and is thoroughly (un)impressed with his duty assignment.

In Daggerfall our mages have worked on me, setting up the cosmetic enhancements which alter my physical appearance to make it more disarming to the human inhabitants. This is a close approximation of what I look like now, in Skyrim. I am Cyrelian, of well-respected caste and family, though those distinctions are currently no longer in fashion, and no one is to wear his or her ancestral name. I am an oath-sworn agent of the Thalmor, and I have been sent here to Skyrim on a delicate assignment, known to no one save myself and my aunt, who still counts among the highest of the high command.

I am not sure yet whether this is nepotism, expedience, or simply a politic way to rid oneself of an unwanted relation. It was made plain to me by her that my presence in Alinor is irritating rather than helpful. I have heard her speaking of me as if I were one step up from an uneducated bumpkin; but perhaps that is just dressing for her elegant friends. I do not know. That is a good summation of my position in Alinor, and my awareness of who is friend and who is foe: I do not know. 

I did not protest this assignment.

\--

My father, who is now gone, helped to guide the rise of the Thalmor. I only hope I can follow the better parts of his example. I don't care to speak of him at present; his shadow is too large. 

I have a sister, Elenwen, who is a great deal older than I am. My father re-married after he was well past two hundred years of age. Elenwen and Cireen, my elder sisters, have been in and out of the legal courts for years, battling with my various guardians and trustees over questions of inheritance. My mother, my younger sisters, and a plethora of cousins are similarly embroiled. 

My aunt Elodie served as my guardian during the last few years of my schooling, until I reached majority and took the Oath to enter the ranks of the Thalmor. I thought myself freed thereby. I was disabused of this conceit as soon as I received my first duty assignment. I was sent to serve as an administrative aide in Elodie's own office, in that overly grand townhouse she maintains in Alinor-the-city. I suppose it was done with an eye towards conserving Dominion resources; it was not even necessary for me to send for my personal belongings. Elodie had not bothered to have them put in storage. So I moved back into my old rooms, and my days became very much the same.

Six months later, I was told that First Emissary Elenwen had sent for me. 

__

My aunt has obligingly released me from her authority to Elenwen's.

While the northwestern seacoast approaching Skyrim is brutally cold, it is balmy compared to the apprehension I feel. 

Elen has no love for me.

Has she been apprised of my secret assignment? I do not know.

__

Is it all ice here? 

How do these men live?

"Wolfskins and horker oil, from the smell," said the senior Justiciar. "These humans live in huts made from sticks and half-cured hide." 

He and the other Justiciars laugh. Their contempt also encompasses me. They are the First Emissary's hand-picked associates; I am evidently newly-sworn and heading in for my first real assignment. 

Elenwen and my aunt were both very clear. 

No one is to know my family, or my relation to the First Emissary.

\--

Deathly cold, but lovely. Anything is better than the atmosphere in the wardroom.

\--

Landfall at last. It has been three months of constant misery. The senior Justiciar condescends to speak with me on occasion, particularly when he has been drinking. I do not like him.

I am not of such a station as to speak freely with the others. Even if I were, they have made it plain they will not speak to me.

\--

Finally docking. It will be a relief to see my sister again, so that I can get the measure of her hate. Not knowing is upsetting. My stepfather warned me to watch my back in Alinor.

My aunt sent me here without his knowledge. I hope he keeps my mother home. They sneer at her for remaining on the farm, but it is far better to rusticate than to deal with the other risks.

\--

Little better than savages, the Nords huddle in skin tents, mud and daub huts with infested straw roofs, and caverns.... Hm. Well, I have learned to never trust a briefing.

\--

We could have gone ashore without incident at Northwatch. These men know that our landing here at their port is mere swagger. So now we wait. For the harbor-master. For the approval of the watch steward, the day watch captain, and General Tullius. There are an impressive amount of forms to fill out.

Near-savages apparently possess an equal capacity for oppressive bureaucracy.

\--

Don't speak with the locals until given authority to do so.

A scolding from the senior Justiciar already. Insanity. This mer was simply enquiring about the mail post from Alinor. Awaiting news from home. From his accent, obviously not a local.

\--

To spare the apologetic mer and myself further embarrassment, I go up the steps to walk along the wharf for a bit. It's warmer here as the sun goes down. There must be a nearby warm current.

\--

Windmills pumping water and dry-fitted stonework. Multiple towers and all angles of approach covered by enfilading fire. Three separate sets of gates, all checkpointed. Several guard patrols and shift changes. Multiple large storehouses within the city and presumably also in the old fortress at the city center. Gates there as well; a last-ditch zone of defense. Sewer system. Vendors leave stalls unattended. Children roam freely. Parents do not call them back to eyesight. Only a couple of obvious beggars who themselves look well enough fed.

There are no stocks, no gibbets, no placards of denunciation.

It is pretty here, but we do not linger. We get our papers sorted and leave. The citizens here do not acknowledge us beyond getting out of our way or turning aside and affecting to not notice. Where we go, an eerie quiet descends.

A curt meeting with the local Imperial general before leaving for the embassy.

\--

It is blistering cold even half an hour up the mountain, of course. The embassy is constructed similarly to the Solitude buildings. It is walled and gated, with alert and well-armed guards.

It is possible to discern from their tension just how much the locals hate us.

I am directed to the basement common area for the meantime. It is an hours-long wait.

\--

They know I am here-- messages have been relayed back and forth, and they signaled at us from Northwatch Keep as we sailed by at dawn.

This is a deliberate message.

At last. Justiciar Hinnaro arrives and apologized for the lengthy delay. No one could find Elenwen. Apparently she has gone to the city to speak with some dignitary and our paths crossed without knowing. He directs me to the baths... and a haircut, which I am not happy about. I acquiesce.

They made me cut my hair... It was presuming above my station. Did Elen not tell them... 

At least there is a bath. Finally a bath.

A sitting-area. This is described to me as typical Solitude architecture. 

Pretty fancy for a skin hut. 

Or is this a cave?

Hinnaro laughs.

He is the first pleasant person I have encountered in four months. It makes me trust him. This is a bad mistake.

\--

These accommodations aren't so bad... Wait. 

Where here are the bedroom doors? There is a disturbing lack of privacy here, which I will get to know all too well in the coming months.

Third Emissary Rulindil came out briefly for a few words, all very official. I was given another lecture on deportment. 

It would have been quite intimidating had he not been too far gone in drink even to read my paperwork. He handed it off to the Khajiit.

He did recommend the Riften honey-wine as one of the better perks of this duty station. That at least was useful information.

After all that has happened to my family in Alinor, I am skilled in appearing other than what I am. Two years of further training honed that. 

There is only one difficulty that I foresee. 

I have been cursed by Dibella.

This is what the Thalmor cannot know about.

It will likely get me killed.

But I am getting very much ahead of myself. At this time, whatever whispers there might have been, I was still an innocent.

\--

I sleep and eat and pick through the few books available. Waiting for Elen.

Elenwen arrives, at last. She is coolly professional and I cannot get her measure. She is shorter than I remember and more impatient.

\--

Professional, that is, after her first pole-axed moment, when she first recognized who was standing before her. Never before have I seen her lose her demeanor. Still, she recovers quickly, and begins to give me the new-Justiciar orientation, together with a tour of the Embassy property.

"My duty is simple--oversee the Thalmor Justiciars, and make sure they perform their duties admirably."

Is this another lesson on controlling my facial expression? Because even the dogs in the kennel would laugh. I know very well from servants' chatter that all here know what it is that a First Emissary does.

\--

"The Empire, in its wisdom, has come to recognize Talos worship as a barbaric remnant of a bygone age." Elenwen gestures at where a shrine had been yanked out of its moorings, leaving its shrine-niche as shamefully gapped as a missing tooth.

Why was I expecting to get more from my sister than the standard newcomer's lecture?

It has become plainly apparent that our aunt did not brief Elen as to the fact that I was to be assigned here, in Skyrim. It therefore follows that Elodie did not see fit to advise Elenwen of my actual assignment, either-- and that is also curious.

Elenwen was not expecting me.

Still, she gives me orders. I am to educate myself more thoroughly on our mission here and remain at the embassy for duties as assigned.

Whilst unassigned, or during my rest periods, I am to study. But what I am given is no more than the most simplistic manuals of religious instruction. Meant for mankind, I take it... or perhaps for mentally defective mer children.

I know that they received orders to train me as a mage... what is this?

Meals are alone. Elen put me in her suite of rooms and is staying in Solitude. The Justiciars and others bunk elsewhere. There is a lot of sneering talk about me being her pet. She has not told them.

\--

The days go by. I do what I am told. 

\--

I am rewarded with a crucial task: standing guard over an assembly room which is devoid of all furnishings and persons.

As I am quite good at standing still, Elenwen eventually finds a new duty for me; I am to be her show horse. Once I have the proper knowledge and deportment, of course.

\--

There is an entire book of rules and edicts. Front hall duty requires little attention. I am to memorize these.

"Remind."

The huntsman is superior to the hound, and I believe he calls a leash a leash; the falconer superior to the hawk, and a jess is a jess. To the horseman a spur is a spur.

So what is this? What effect has 'this Skyrim' had on my proud sister?

A truly superior being would have no use for euphemism.

I am to moderate my tongue.

Another hour of meditation at daybreak and sunset, until I can control my wit. It is guised as training, another euphemism I am sure. 

I have had upward of thirty years to rehearse the lesson Elen is seeking to impose; my life since my father's death has been this careful dressage dance

What does Elen think this restriction will accomplish?

\--

And...back to the endless studying. I sleep a lot to fill the time.

This place is lovely but it is a prison. I am always being monitored.

Justiciar Hinnaro and his crew are out at work during the day; it is their duty to maintain safety in the immediate environs of the Embassy. Elenwen keeps to her solar when present. Her time is more than occupied meeting with the local dignitaries, to say nothing of our own couriers and agents. She has little for me to do. The soldiers continue to patrol.

Each day the Third Emissary calls the guards in for inspection. When Elenwen is present this occurs at dawn. When she is absent it takes place two hours past noon, the better to accommodate his malaise.

Justiciars are expected to be about their duties during the afternoon hours, and I am technically a Justiciar, so from this inspection I am exempt. For a blessed half-hour, there is no one watching me.

There is a basement storeroom...I am ashamed of what I do, but this is the only relief I get in this place.

Is everyone drunk here? All the time? It's the only explanation. I have not seen Elen in 10 years-- she was sharp-tongued and bitter, but not willfully stupid. At least I am finally getting a real assignment.

\--

Every week I am put into Nord clothing and taken to Solitude. My job is to walk alongside Elen and appear non-threatening. Friendly. Naive. Trusting. If Elen has found herself needing to use euphemism, these people are at a level of intellect where not even their small children will be fooled by this. 

Very well.

The bathhouse is more lavish than some we have at home. Very civilized. As part of my duties I get to chat with the local bard, as best as I can through the thick accent. Music knows no barrier. Raw and crude at first listen, Nord music has a haunting undertone that must be mastered. I learn quickly enough to please him.

I did not perform in the common room, but I did sit with the game board from time to time. I admit I did see him, then. He was fearsome, compelling. At times he wore the garb of his office, with its stinks and stains. I did not dare speak with him.

Elenwen directed me to go to the Bard's College for a lecture or three. Elen condescended to speak with the dean, himself Altmeri... a fact which both he and she pointedly failed to acknowledge. Mer who live with men are to be treated as men are? 

I play for the soldiers outside our tower in Dour Castle. I do as am I told and do not show any initiative whatsoever.

Elen grits her teeth through pleasant smile and continues to give me orders.

Language lessons. Vigorous correction of tone and accent. Three years of physical conditioning and two years of internship in Alinor, plus six months of travel. For... this. 

Sigh.

May I take your empty, sir?

\--

I am now to listen and report on the meaningless conversations I overhear. Well, that will be a treat.

"More mead, First Emissary?"

When I am deemed accultured enough, I am brought to the Blue Palace to be shown like Elenwen's prize horse.

After my outings I am returned forthwith to my studies. I can no longer read this bilge, but no matter; the semblance of study is all that is required.

My thoughts run elsewhere...

And there is nothing to do here but service myself.

Mead helps, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian is finally given something (less un)important to do!


	2. Cyrelian-- In Nominal Command: Thalmor Embassy 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Thalmor Justiciars aren't born knowing how to give orders.
> 
> Cyrelian and his Thalmor soldiers look for pirates, and can't find any.

Every day I wait for an assignment. 

Something more exciting than holding up walls with my back and being Elen's prize pet.

The opportunities for advancement here seem endless. Who can say... perhaps I'll be trusted with the mead bottles next.

Of course my duties are fully supervised. Just like everything else around here.

Well. Not everything else.

Elen may have denied my kinship and status, but cannot forbid me training-at-arms. 

It is required of all Justiciars. For her to forbid it would go remarked upon.

Finally. I am to be sent out on something beyond hospitality duty.

Thurindir and Uluwie.

Thurindur's a nasty suspicious bastard who suspects my motives.

Uluwie believes everyone here to be an unprofessional disgrace to soldiery.

They are probably both right. We don't get along. But nothing bad happens to me on their watch.

Temporary duty assignment. Goodwill patrol, hopefully to clean up some banditry alongside of Tullius' men.

At least the Imperials sent to nursemaid us are courteous.

Thurindir actually gives me more trouble. I am nominally in command, but I know better.

We do what he says.

Maybe next time he'll even let me pretend to give the orders.

We spend about ten hours walking up and down the hills and then return to the town. Thurindur claims these bandits took ship weeks ago.

I was told before coming here that the Nords despised other races and that I could not expect to see other mer here. This mer is going about her business undisturbed. She seems to be a friendly acquaintance of the proprietress.

Natives here are perfectly amiable in the absence of Talos lectures.

The food is quite decent, salmon and grilled bread with herbs and garlic. 

Even better, it's late enough that we get to spend the night.

And I get to take the room in the basement, since I am in command, however nominally--and it's the warmest. 

And it has a door. With a bolt.

This is how I get myself in trouble, always. I wasn't thinking clearly. Hadn't had a room with a door on it to myself in upwards of 7 months, and the cell was always a risk. Nice to not be in a hurry. I tried to be quiet...

...but I am not really in command of myself, either.

I am fairly certain at least one of them heard me, and I slink along, mortified.

Thankfully no one says anything, and we go back to our patrol. 

Nothing happens.

We have only three days of per diem. Thurindir declares we shall go back to the embassy. I am quite sure he pockets the difference.

Uluwie remains indifferent.

Sigh. Back to my usual duties.

Today it is my turn to warm the floor in here, one footprint at a time.

The bars here turn gilt at sunset, but it is still a cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Elenwen throws a party, and Cyrelian gets himself into a whole lot of trouble.


	3. Cyrelian--Disgrace: Thalmor Embassy 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian is an overachiever, at least when it comes to hospitality duty. Both good and bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: m/f/f threesome; dubious consent/drugged sex; implied rape; and for young idiots being jerks to the gender non-conforming.
> 
> Please do not mistake the attitudes and opinions of an immature Thalmor for those of the management; Cyrelian will learn some manners in time, or so we hope.

This is the high priestess of the Temple of Dibella in Markarth. 

For quite some time I believed all of this could have been her doing.

\--

My name is Cyrelian. 

I am a Thalmor Justiciar, serving under First Emissary Elenwen.

I was hand-picked for this prestigious post, no doubt placed here above dozens of better-qualified applicants. 

My important assignments thus far have included vermin control and hospitality duty.

I did not know it then, or even recognize it till much later, after speaking with a friend who has endured some rather varied experiences and who had rather a lot to say about all of this.

Do you see the small bottle there by the bowl of wine-punch? 

I confess I did not.

For a long time I thought it was my fault, for being unused to Colovian brandy and to wine-punch. 

And for other reasons.

I had no suspicion at the outset. 

She said her name was Iriana, and she was evidently a mer of middling blood from Alinor-the-city. 

I first saw her a few days before the party that went so wrong. She had been sent to the embassy to meet with Elenwen about the next month's entertainment.

I confess, it was a relief to me to have her catch my eye.

It wasn't lost on me that she was female, and mer-- while Dibella is not an Altmeri goddess, and by no means is au courant with the ideals of the Thalmor, at least this was a not inconceivable lust.

It was wholly expected, if not quite allowed, for me to be dreaming of her sweet flesh.

And it is true: I longed for the tendernesses I knew nothing of.

Dreams that were so vivid I could feel the weight of her on my hips, the tingle of her kisses on my mouth.. Even the words I said to drive her onwards, to--

Yes, miss. Downstairs, to the right of the cloak closet.

Sigh.

I have been made a servant in this place-- a servant to these humans who believe that they are of rank and privilege. 

I have been forbidden by the First Emissary to say-- 

\--

I am being unfair.

Though Elen will not allow me to claim close kinship, I am not in truth a servile person here. As I am the most junior officer amongst the Thalmor here, it is my duty to serve our guests, to drink and mingle with them, and to entertain them. 

They are to find us congenial hosts.

So, what is my so-crucial assignment? 

To listen to every inane conversation and foolish word, and record it in memoranda to be directed to our superiors in Alinor.

I only hope our spymasters enjoy the detailed records I provide them.

For two years in Alinor I trained at the feet of the greatest master we have ever had of the art of memory. And so I shall give them every last inane word.

First Emissary, my fervent prayer is that you must read and countersign each page of every last memorandum that I shall produce, on the frequent if not novel witticisms of one Erikur, Thane of Haafingar.

Some conversations, of course, I decline to overhear. I am not stupid.

I should not stare at her.

I play for the guests, of course.

And pretend to roister with them.

Abruptly, I hiccuped.

Sorry, my lord. Pardon me. The brandy, perhaps.

I had taken just the merest taste of the Colovian-- but perhaps I had downed it too fast. 

\--

I went back for a cup of water. 

Three or four of the Justiciars were standing near the refreshments; and one suggested I switch to the wine-punch. 

I was so focused on my duty of eavesdropping and memorizing the conversations which swirled about us, that I did not note who that was, nor which of them handed me the cup. 

My heart is in my playing, but only for my beautiful one. 

Does she know I play for her? She does not.

\--

I play for the crowd.

More wine-punch and I will not care.

I can be persuaded to play another set, and to take another cup of wine-punch.

\--

Was it Hinnaro who brought it to me? I remember speaking to him briefly.

My head was hurting by now, and the air in the room seemed too close and still.

Thank you. You are all so very kind.

There is no real excuse for my rudeness, and I'm certain the First Emissary would have been aghast if she knew-- we do not relax demeanor in front of these humans-- but I was too far outside my own experience; I did not know what to think. Other than that I was pretty sure that someone in Alinor who looked like that would be imprisoned. If not burned alive as an object lesson. I was morbidly fascinated. My judgment, I fear, was already slipping.

General, another flagon? Yes, I'm pretty sure ...uh... she could make three of you. Maybe four. No sir, I'm afraid I don't know what some of these Dibellan priesthoods get up to. 

I would prefer not to relate what I said after that; suffice to say that I was later advised that it was rude beyond all measure.

So that's what a strong Nord woman looks like, my Jarl? 

And... something about a strong drink and a fist fight? 

\--

I am pretty sure I said a few more inappropriate things.

But I had a ready excuse to approach. 

A drink?

Steeling myself to approach and then flee, as if I were counting coup.

As I said, rude.

I've been overheard by the Reverend Mother, but I am getting too hazy to care.

Reverend Mother Senna was not the only one who overheard me.

I stumble and babble through apologies. 

Iriana's words melted my thought process, all at once. 

Assuming, of course, that I still had that capacity. 

Iriana makes promises of what could be. If I apologize. 

I have no idea what I stammered out, but... I must be forgiven? 

I never did catch her name.

Awkwardly, I blunder away, making my excuses. I need to play for the guests again. But I am far too drunk to perform.

Immediately I am beckoned over by the First Emissary, called to account, told that I am a disgrace, and sent upstairs like a naughty child.

What is wrong with me? I could barely manage the stairs, and my vision was darkening. 

I had to pause and lean against the wall. Did I take more wine-punch than I'd thought?

\------

From this point forward, only short glimpses. 

Iriana and her well-built friend assisted me up the stairs... 

I believe they must have. I remember hearing them. They were there.

Perhaps I should have not have neglected a close reading of these humans' religious texts.

What had I been missing? 

No matter; it seemed I was about to get a personal demonstration of the Dibellan rites.

Beautiful

Iriana let me look and touch and taste for myself. 

Her lover did too.

What was her name? I cannot recall it; or her face. I remember the grip of her hands and the feel of her thighs.

I remember sliding around and scrabbling at the sheets like a fool, and needing help to recover myself.

All became a blur of images and sensations.

I become dimly aware there are others in the room, the clank of armor, some merish laughter.

Jokes at my expense.

It does not matter. I cannot stop myself; I am not even fully aware of what we are doing. I am in and out of black slumber. My limbs are too heavy to respond... I do not even cry my pleasure.

Unfortunately I do recall the expression on the First Emissary's face.

There is a lot of commotion at this point. Someone is screaming at me, but the words make no sense. I am bewildered.

The soldiers who were so avidly watching now stand by, pretending that they had been about to intervene.

I do not even have the dignity of Elenwen pretending that nothing has happened.

The Dibellan priestesses are strongly encouraged to leave, in front of the guests. I am directed back upstairs to bed to sleep it off. Elenwen returns with her guests to Solitude, something about containing the damage. She is eerily calm and pleasant. I thought I knew her anger. The guests leave; Elenwen leaves; I have been told to remain in my room. 

A scant hour later I am woken and dragged from my bed. I do not wish to speak of what happened next; it was unpleasant.

I am now housed in what Elenwen calls 'the monk's cell'. 

It is distressingly familiar. 

I am quite aware now that I have been observed this entire time. Even when I thought myself alone.

It does not stop. Hinnaro and the others come for me at night. 

Sometimes even during the day, at least when Elen and Thurindir and Uluwie are gone.

Third Emissary Rulindil is supposed to be in charge of the Justiciars.

He locks himself in the solar with his wine and his favorites; no help from him.

Endless meditation. I know they are watching me, all of them. It is not hard to pray. I feel filthy.

It is no trouble now, to read and re-read the sacred passages that I have long since memorized.

It is a relief to have something else for my mind to fasten on.

I can rest, but not truly sleep. I am afraid to close my eyes.

Hours of meditation cannot help when the soldiers come to look at me. I know the three. I do not know who the others were.

In the mornings I am permitted a brief walk around the grounds, under guard.

Is that-- it is not, after all, a way out. It flies off northward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian finds a way to get away from the Thalmor Embassy.


	4. Cyrelian--Escape: Haafingar 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian finds a way to get away, first in his mind... and then for real.

A dragon, this far north. I keened to follow it, trapped as I was.

There would be no point in reporting it to anyone. It wouldn't lead to aught but mockery and another set of demerits to work off.

Five months ago, this place was my privilege. 

Now it is a prison. 

I had rather be at Northwatch Keep in the filthy straw with those wretched heretics than here. We treat them better, I know now, than many of our own.

Assignments and re-assignments continued for everyone else. I asked Elenwen for another patrol but was denied; I was still on restriction. There were times when the entire staff was gone with Elen down to the khajiit; everyone else permitted to leave but me and the embassy guards. Others were about during the day, even when Elenwen was gone. I needed to be seen at my duties. 

Or there would be more talk.

This prison that held me was not made of stone walls or iron bars.

It was Jerulith-- an unpleasant person, certainly, and present only to protest her own disgrace--

Jerulith who saved my sanity in the end. Jerulith was called in one day to be reprimanded and demoted. 

She walked out.

She simply left-- and no one did anything to stop her.

Why couldn't I do the same? 

I had no answers.

Something shifted in me, though.

I was not ranked amongst the Thalmor yet at all; my aunt Elodie had sent me here.

Elenwen had not even assigned a training officer to me yet.

So First Emissary Elenwen was the only mer here who held real authority over me.

I began to manufacture duties which kept me out of sight. Overnight in the city, if possible.

I went to see Ambassador Orondil almost daily, on the pretense that Elenwen had lent him my assistance. Sub rosa, of course, since she couldn't get the necessary approvals. Best not call it to anyone's official notice, or my help would have to cease. I explained that his diplomatic efforts had not gone unrecognized, but that there was some little difficulty getting the justiciary to approve his particular methodology. So there would not be any agreement in place for an increase in funds, nor a budget for increased staff. 

He, like most functionaries, likes to complain about his lack of secretarial staff and errand-runners. I think he was rather flattered to get some attention.

While he made it clear that he felt put-upon, Orondil gave me some minor errands to accomplish.

I had explained to Orondil that my orders were to... well, to be about, and to make myself pleasant. Accommodating. Reasonable. Non-threatening.

Any of the other Thalmor would have scotched this immediately.

Orondil recognized that it was base flattery, of course. But I think he was delighted someone had noticed and endorsed his own tactics. 

So I made the rounds according to my self-assumed duties, exchanging light pleasantries with the guards.

Listening to Ma'dran and Ri'saad's tall tales.

Gossiping with pretty palace girls.

No, I didn't stop and talk to him, that was far too alarming.

Some time later the greengrocer told me he'd been asking about me, but that's for later.

Elenwen was still too disgusted to talk to me, so when I told her that I was collecting information for Orondil, she merely waved me off as an irritation.

I told Orondil that I was cultivating informants for Elenwen.

Orondil knew that I was doing nothing of substance during the day, but as Elenwen hadn't responded to his own duty-requests in months, I am sure he felt no impetus to call the matter to her attention.

And I was staying long hours in the evening to work on his backlog of requisitions. Many of them required three or four copies, with a variety of stamps and signatures. These were routine matters that had been piling up, nothing of any great importance. 

Did I mention that prior to the incident I had been trusted to write letters for Elen sometimes? I have good clear handwriting.

Thurindir would be around Castle Dour, and then we would have a lesson of sorts. 

Appropriate behavior on my part just caused Thurindir to spit on the ground. Bad behavior caused him to grudge a little respect.

Even as things got worse at the embassy, as Hinnaro and the others grew bolder in what they did, I began to range further afield, both in the world and in my mind, when I could.

Even then I was never the weak and useless creature they thought me.

Even in these moments of reflection I told myself that I was strong enough for this; that I chose to remain chained to my useless duties. I chose to return to the embassy most nights.

I chose to endure this.

While my previous life was that of ease, I have the practical skill to survive in this world. My second stepfather saw to that.

Skyrim and its fierce weather and creatures holds no terrors for me.

There were evenings where I could not bear to return to the embassy. I stayed out all night, taking what shelter I could.

What punishment could Elenwen dole out to me that was worse than what I currently endured?

What was the worst she could now do? Send me home?

I suppose re-education directed by the Sapiarch of Indoctrination would be the worst, but that is unlikely given our familial circumstances. 

And Elenwen would be viewed as seeking an unfair advantage in the proceedings in regards to our disputed inheritance.

All this assumes, of course, that the nature of my troubles with Hinnaro and his friends went unknown.

And if it were known... well. I supposed it would be better for my family...

I began to understand why we Thalmor wish to unmake Mundus. To make it so that it never has been. I wished that very keenly.

I continued to pretend that all was as it should be.

Uluwie heard something or saw something one evening that she did not like. 

She said nothing overt.

That evening at supper one of her soldiers said I could sleep in their barracks, advising only that they were rather light sleepers, and a bit on edge from their patrols in enemy territory. So it was on sufferance, so long as I didn't set my pallet between any one of them and the door. 

While Hinnaro could pass off what he and the others did to me as some kind of hazing--and he'd proved he could get at me even within the confines of Castle Dour-- this would certainly not apply should he be discovered in the female soldiers' barracks. And they would exact their own punishment. 

Uluwie remained brusque with me. A few weeks later, Hinnaro found a way to get at me even when Elenwen was present at the embassy and I was required to be sleeping in my own bed. 

Uluwie bumped past me rudely in the hallway. In passing she slipped me a key to one of the provisioning-chests.

In the chest, native clothing, a knife and flint; a few other oddments. 

And rather a lot of the local money. I waited for days for the right chance.

There was some sort of disturbance down south which called Elenwen away again; she left in a hurry with everyone save Brelas and the standing crew of Justiciars and outside guards. I walked out of the embassy the next morning when the gates opened, uniformed as always, with my satchel of paperwork, changed clothes...

And vanished.

I am a barbarian living in a skin hut. Or perhaps a cave would better suit. It is getting colder at night.

Elen liked to make references to the "rude hearth" I'd been fostered in on Alinor.

This is a very far cry indeed from my parents' country home.

I faced a few hazards, but I know how to fight vermin.

One of the lessons I had been taught was to let no opportunity go wasted. No resource, either.

It is a mouldering cave, but it is my own.

But it has its own private comforts.

Here, my place is my own.

My pleasures, my own.

I suppose I am, truly, a rude savage in fur rags, because it did not bother me at all to live in the wild. I was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thurindir is from the mod of that same name, self-published by mod author Halo. He is a cranky follower.  
> Ambassador Orondil is from the mod Interesting NPCs. Although I do believe I have given him a promotion in rank.
> 
>  
> 
> Next: Cyrelian reflects on a family holiday.


	5. Saturalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he winters over in the wild, Cyrelian reconsiders the lessons he learned from a family holiday.
> 
> This chapter's SFW, but for one picture Cyrelian bathing; he's in underpants. This chapter's a flashback to a time back home; next one resumes the action.

The Thalmor have not sent the best of the Altmeri to Skyrim, and we are rightfully despised. 

Being of our kind carries many burdens. We have a responsibility to the lesser races of Tamriel that cannot be evaded. We are not here to indulge ourselves at their expense. They are our kindred from the very beginning--and for aught we know, perhaps again at the very end. So it is up to us... and us alone... to set the proper example. To be proper governors of this our temporary estate.

We are failing at this task.

We are acting like slave-masters, and incompetent ones at that.

Amongst us there are standards of decorum and behavior that must be observed: A dignity of person; a formality of bearing and dress; a manner of cultivated speech. 

At the very least one's public life should be beyond reproach.

My father was the example our household looked to in those days. My aunts and sisters, even Elen; everyone. He had set himself apart from his own family and become one of the first of the newly rekindled Thalmor.

At ease in any company, well-accomplished in business; terrifying in war. Father of many children. He was not a mage, yet a teacher of mages as he was renowned in later life as a scholar and a theologian. He strove for excellence in every area of life.

He lived to the age of two hundred and thirty eight, and burned like a brand against the night sky.

I believe these expectations may have been too much for my poor mother. 

She was young when they married. She was his fourth wife. He had living children and potential heirs aplenty, but there was some sad circumstance that had to do with her family that drew his attention. She was of equally good caste if not wealth; and she was lovely. Certainly he chose well, as they made four children together; three of whom survived.

He died before I was eight years old, and she was left adrift.

My first stepfather, Magistrate Firamo, was also renowned as a war hero for his actions in the First War. He took severe injuries in the retreat from Hammerfell and was never the same after that.

He had been a renowned jurist, and had handled the family affairs for years. I believe he had had something to do with my father's probate, but when my mother arrived as his doorstep seeking help, he abruptly handed over the task to a colleague. Elenwen and Cireen contested the will, of course, and all of the property went into trust when an proscribed abeyance was found to be possible.

I think my father's elder daughters wished to force my mother into a concession, burdened as she was with a pregnancy and three young children, one of whom suffered from a wasting illness. My mother left Alinor-the-city and followed the good magistrate to his home in the country near Silvaarwoad. They married within a few days and within a few months he was shipped off to the war. But our place was secure. Firamo was kind enough to us children but distant; I don't think he had anticipated such a busy house.

My mother and Firamo were not of the same caste, but his reputation made up much of the difference. And, of course, the Thalmor had put an end to such considerations.

Firamo's death ten years later was not unexpected; but I mourned the way I had for my sister a year prior. More so: it had been his skill on the legal field which kept my mother and myself sheltered; in his absence what would shelter us? 

At least his testamentary documents were clear. My mother had a home, and a significant income, and had been named guardian of all of their children. There was no way that my sisters could challenge that. 

We were safe.

My mother's new resources meant she was better able to resist the machinations of my father's other heirs. But she was still known as his widow. Ten years is not that long. There were constant entreaties to return to the city and civilized society; letters endorsing proper behavior and so on. Cireen even went to the extent of petitioning for guardianship for myself and Ellanye and Ceryolwyn, on the grounds that Cireen at least had a stable household. My half-brother Naris and yet-unborn sister, of lower caste, were accordingly of no account and could be left to my mother's incompetence. 

Firamo had also thought of what could happen to my mother newly widowed, and had made plans accordingly. There was an adjoining landowner who had at one point been seeking to purchase the manor house property in Potansa. 

He was yet unmarried: Township Reeve Joral.

He had just returned from an administrative post in Torval, and had never before seen my mother.

Joral was of the highest caste, of course-- nothing else would have suited-- but his family had all been country people. Mer like my elegant mother were far beyond his ken.

He acquiesced of course; I believe there was a substantial settlement involved. They met and signed the registry the same day.

Once he came to the house, which was now his, he sent for my brother and my sisters and myself, to subject ourselves to his review. We were, of course, properly attired and behaved. He was silent for some time, long enough for us to become worried. And then he told my mother that we were going to live a different way. 

She pleaded with him, but he was adamant.

I remember what I thought about it. 

I thought he was insane.

My older sisters sent regular visitors to our house: whether it be witnesses or writ-servers for the litigation they had mired us in; or Thalmor canonreeves seeking to review us. We had to be correct.

Or we risked all.

And I was the head of the household who would bear the consequences of all of this.

What was he doing?

Joral could have been severe with me, but he took me aside.

It was close to the holiday, a few weeks before Saturalia.

He said that my little brother and sisters had known enough grief in too short a time. That I could maintain myself how I pleased but that they deserved at least a holiday. They needed to be children again, at least for a time. He said it was not much for a morning-gift; a few days of presents and sweets, but he thought my mother could use a few days of her little childrens' joy at least.

I did not have much to say in response to this.

I could not take that from her.

He immediately exempted us from our previous standard of dress.

My mother was dubious, but cooperative.

I had book learning, a great deal of it, but never any practical instruction. Joral said that we would be amending that. He said that no son of his rearing would lack any of the needful skills. He said it would do me no good to learn only the proper form and not the substance. I did not know what he meant.

Surely it is our place to be well-disposed and learned; and for others to provide and serve?

So, he took me outdoors to get through lessons in the chilly evening. It was clear I had never held a sword properly before at all; we worked on that.

Further instructions on the basic handling of alchemy equipment; in my father's household this had been the work of servants. I had never before touched a vessel or retort.

I even had some practical instruction when it came to enchanting, though we were much more careful about that. A little charm for gloves using soul gems which come from vermin-traps.

I reeked of sweat, and odd fumes, and smoke. This was the first time in my life where I actually required a bath to be fit for the company of decent folk.

My mother-- I did not see her much. She had retreated to the nursery.

My lessons began to make a great deal more sense; I began to ask questions and to work out the answers on my own.

Joral insisted that I learn even the most menial of tasks. So we began anew at everything; he even taught me how to cook.

How to handle the kitchen equipment; how to manage one's larder;

How to craft a full and delicious meal from almost nothing.

I served, too, with the manners that I had learned previously; Joral said that was needful knowledge, too.

My little brother Naris assisted with this project of his. Naris was delighted.

I was afraid my mother had isolated herself out of her discomfort with the new regimen.

I should not have been concerned.

I had never seen her before so playful.

It was a new thing for her…

For all of us.

I found myself laughing with delight.

There were other little surprises that week.

There had never been a gift before, without strings of expectation. I did not know how to play a lute at all; I hesitated to touch it. I was confused. I should play it here? Before all of them, and without any lessons? I should make a fool of myself. And one must be excellent at everything. 

Joral reminded me that I was not an adult and that it was my absolute and divinely-ordained duty to be obedient to him as the head of the household.

And then he ordered me to play this lute. He ordered me to play it badly.

I knew he was laughing at me, but…

I am Thalmor; I am the heir to a great name and estate.

What could I do but my duty?

A great weight had lifted.

There was breathing room for dreams again, at least.

Joral had noticed that I had no friends.

So he invited a few young persons in, for conversation and an informal supper.

Maybe he had given them instruction as well; I don't know. I explained to Ohtimir that I really didn't know how to do anything, really, but wear formal clothing and give recitations; he thought it was a joke.

Ohtimir invited me out to go riding and to hunt pheasant.

I secretly gave a honey-cake to Dibella, in thanks to whatever chance had brought Joral to my mother. She was happy. My little sisters were happy. Naris was happy.

I was happy.

It was a wonderful gift, this respite.

I knew it wouldn't last, and it didn't.

But it carried me through some dark places later.

Change is a force without focus or design.

It is very recently that we Thalmor have chosen to intervene in the world outside our shores. Our forebears sat idly by whilst souls remained bound to the tyranny of Mundus; no more. We are Altmeri; we are the enlightened ones. It is our duty, as enlightened ones, to discourage unnecessary cruelty, greed, sloth, ignorance, and tyranny-without-just-cause. Fostering such dooms us more surely to this world.

It is equally our duty to encourage change where it brings excellence, beauty, and happiness, to the greaterment of souls. All souls. What good will it do for us to finish our great task and unwork the world if we are not ourselves ready?

What would we become then?

Maybe my stepfather had the best wisdom: We are all still as children; and it is better to take delight in the simple pleasures of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian is recaptured by his former associates... and with some help from others, takes refuge in Solitude.


	6. Cyrelian--Lucky: Haafingar 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucky the goat, a small boy, and the veteran soldiers of Penitus Oculatus rescue Cyrelian from his captors.
> 
> Chapter 5 is SFW. Has violence.

This was again my fault. 

I was careless. I had gotten too confident in my ability to hide from the patrols, and Hinnaro caught me. 

So now I am a killer, maybe even a murderer.... I cannot..

Whilst living in my cave, I did have need of things I could not get from the wild. Arrows, for one, and the use of a sharpening stone. I would go to Dragon Bridge from time to time to borrow the facilities there.

I didn't speak to the locals, nor they to me, but I would cut a little firewood for payment.

Hinnaro caught me on the way back. 

Would that it had been Elenwen instead.

I recognized them all save one, and I knew immediately we were not going back to the embassy to face official reprimand. In fact, no-one left to report back to the embassy once they had me bound; it was straight to Northwatch Keep and in through the sea-gate where no one passes if there are no ships. 

Hinnaro took me to one of the empty interrogation chambers.

All is a matter of record somewhere; I am sure the Penitus Oculatus saw to that, damn them.

I will spare everyone a recitation. 

Afterwards they held a panicked conference: I had been missing too long. Elenwen had been notified that I was missing and the rest of the Thalmor would be on alert, looking for signs of my presence. Hinnaro had gone too far with me and there would no hiding what had been done. Even with healing, there would be scars. 

I still carry them.

Hinnaro made a fatal error. 

After some discussion with his compatriots, he said that he would take care of it; and told the others to get back to the embassy. They left and let the heavy door fall shut behind them. 

Hinnaro got too close to me. Pretending he would let me out, fooling with the latch to tease me.

I'd spent the last months dodging sabrecats and wrestling actual wolves; once I got hold of him, he proved less of a challenge. 

I didn't even think about it; it was so quick. 

I pulled him against the bars of the cage by his clothes and got my arm about his throat. I think I snapped his neck.

I stripped his body for his clothes and wrapped myself as best I could to stop the blood trail.

I ran through the sea-gate; I hid.

And somehow made my way back up the mountain. I did not even know where I was going.

I was in a terrible cramping pain. It was over then; I was done.

The music of Aetherius does not sound like the clanking of goat bells, and the wretched creature was nipping my hair...

You're interfering with official Thalmor business. 

This doesn't concern you, citizen. 

Walk away.

I crawled off to the shade of a nearby rock. Maybe the boy would go away and let me die in peace. After some more attempts to speak with me, the boy left. The goat had other ideas, butting and prodding.

This is Clinton Lylvieve. 

Clinton is an illustrative example of why our efforts to eradicate Talos worship by force is doomed to failure, short of eradicating the entire human race.

See? Jerulith was right in this. 

Clinton dragged me into better shelter. I am considerably more than twice his height and weight. Clinton scouted his way back to town, and avoided two Justiciar patrols after shadowing them to observe that they were headed in the wrong direction. The third, he put himself in front of, and misdirected them south through heavy underbrush in the direction of what I now know to be a Stormcloak camp. 

According to his mother, who appears to hold him in fairly good esteem, Clinton is no more accomplished than any ordinary human child. Clinton is not any sort of insurgent and his only contact with soldiers has been incidental-- and no doubt highly supervised by his parents. 

Clinton Lylvieve is eight. 

So this is what they are, every last human child. Their adults... well, the adults have a full understanding of what we are capable of and what that means for their households. The adults will be the ones who have prepared and trained for the day of reckoning which will come to all heretics. I think we can take it as read that the adults will be even more competent than their children. 

So, we are doomed to fail. Which I suppose is another heretical thought.

Clinton's mother evinced shock but no surprise. She went to the Penitus Oculatus.

They took horses and followed the boy...

I believe that Clinton was directed to stay in his mother's house at that point but the goat was not so obedient. It had an engraved bell that it kept bumping into me. 

The goat answers to "Lucky".

The Imperials tossed me over the back of the horse and got me into their outpost.

I'll say this for the Imperials; they are well-trained, and the Penitus Oculatus captain was no exception. 

They have a procedure for every contingency, and that procedure gets followed. 

There was an interview-- at least an attempted interview, I was refusing to speak. 

There was hot broth-and-barley and plenty of spring water. 

There was a quick but unpleasantly thorough physical examination by a grizzled old man who appeared to be a healer. He salved my open wounds but rewrapped them in the rags I'd come in with. Two of the agents went out to scout the trail and remove any trace of my passing. They came back in to report to the captain, who was taking copious notes at the narration of the healer. I was nearly asleep at this point and missed most of what was being said. 

The captain had given no orders to them in my presence. They had all been through this procedure before. I gathered the Embassy had been throwing its trash down the mountain for some time. 

He asked me did I wish to return to the embassy.

I should have said yes. Or no.

I said nothing.

He cursed and went out.

The other agents didn't spare me too much attention. They were talking to each other in low tones.

When the captain returned a few hours later, he was with Clinton's mother, Michel Lylvieve. 

She took me into her home and offered a meal. 

For some reason the captain and a couple of his men came with us. The captain had the blankets I'd been on. Probably they needed a wash. The Penitus went into the side room behind the curtain and left us alone.

The whole Lylvieve family was present. Michel talked brightly and cheerfully about the weather, the coming harvest, and Juliette's expected baby. No one said anything about my appearance or that I wasn't eating. I did try, for their sake at least.

We could hear banging on the door on the other houses; could hear mer voices; yelling. I would have gone out to them, but Azzada held me down by the arm, shaking his head. 

Several Thalmor soldiers came in.

The mer were wholly taken by surprise.

One of the dead was Taeryndyl.

Another had been part of their group at the end; I don't know his name.

There was a soldier who I believe was innocent. I don't know his name either.

It was brutal but quick.

The captain apologized to the Lylvieves for the desecration of their home.

The agents used the blanket to drag the bodies out.

There was some cheerful discussion about an abandoned sabercat den which would serve nicely for disposal. The healer came in with a bucket and brushes and he and the captain began scrubbing the walls and floor. Azzada began mixing up whitewash. Michel was pulling up the floor hides. Juliette picked up the pieces of crockery. 

Lucky the goat cleaned up the food which had ended up on the floor.

A tap at the door: it was the elegant mer lady from the clothing shop. She hissed when she saw me. "This will be difficult, Quintus," she said.

The captain told her to do what she could. They allowed me to clean up a bit more and found a headscarf to cover the bandage on my head.

There was discussion about how best to get me into the city.

She did take me aside, outside of their hearing, and demanded to know whether I wanted to go with her, and outlined the risks.

She wanted to know the truth of what I was and who I was before she went any further towards risking herself and her kin and her livelihood. I could have said no, but there were mer dead now. I believed I was lost to my old life. So I told her enough to satisfy her; just that I was a kinsman of Elenwen's and here at her direction. 

I did not think it was possible for her to get paler, but she did. 

They got me through the gates of the city by... Well, they used their usual methods. I shouldn't recount it.

The walls of this city feel different now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian is aided by Solitude's tailors, who try-- and fail-- to find him a way out of Skyrim. Cyrelian confides too much in Auryen Morellus.
> 
> Note:
> 
> Auryen Morellus is the main quest-giver from the mod Legacy of the Dragonborn: Dragonborn Gallery.  
> Lorion is a simple follower from the mod Relationship Dialogue Overhaul.


	7. Cyrelian--Radiant Raiment: Solitude 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian is hidden by expatriates Taarie and Endarie, but is denied assistance by the person who specializes in removing fellow Altmer from the reach of the Thalmor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auryen Morellus is from the wonderful mod Legacy of the Dragonborn. (He does not, so far as I know, enjoy a secret life conducting an Underground Railroad for runaway mer. Though I think he would, if he could.)

Previously I had come and gone through the front gate of Solitude many times with no challenge. As soon as the guards saw the black robes, I would be waved through. Not this time. We weren't going in the front, and the gate guards were all on edge for some reason.

Inveigling me into Solitude took the better part of the day. I spent most of it miserably huddled whilst we waited for this cartload or that.

Eventually I was allowed past...

...and was deposited on the doorstep of Radiant Raiment together with four bales of cast-off silks and a mammoth-mound’s worth of dirty laundry.

The proprietresses strive to maintain an aura of gentility in their shop; this is difficult if tradesmen are clumping back and forth. I was briskly shuffled along with the hampers and the rest of the uncouth necessities into the basement of the shop.

Taarie (Elided for common usage and for the sake of my sanity; she is Ta’aeriwhyle’imn from Firsthold province and never lets one forget it) had provided me with working-clothes and a hood to hide my ears.

I pulled it over my face and closed my eyes, listening to the tread of footsteps back and forth above and the low murmur of cultivated female voices.

Endarie (similarly; she is Endetiedarewyn; also from Firsthold but from a decidedly less urbane setting) came down after a little while with some mountain flower tea and a couple of rusks.

Endarie said that the shop would be closing at dusk as the city was under curfew for the next few days; and advised that they had sent for a proper healer. A full mage, a mer who would know about mer. Trained at the College of Winterhold, not in Alinor. She said this with a fair amount of pride.

Evidently the ‘sisters’—I do not have to explain that particular euphemism to you, do I?

—had long since fully acculturated to Skyrim.

We can expect nothing less from tailors.

And these particular tailors were most adept at tuck-and-dart; and the turn of collar and cuff. I was quite sure she would burn what was left of that Thalmor robe; but no—the passementerie was quickly stripped away; sleeves and fronts and hem and collar all torn loose and placed in separate piles and strata throughout the storage area; the stained lining was dumped into the pile destined to be boiled clean and sold for privy rags.

I would like to think Endarie smiled a little at this, but she does not smile much.

Impressive, from a professional standpoint: for decades the good ladies have maintained a business right at the front gate of Solitude. 

A business that takes in a fair amount of cash; that requires a lot of traffic in and out during carters’ hours for bulky items and a fair amount of secrecy due to the exclusivity of some items; and that has maintained a little salon for the wealthy and well-connected who are absolutely dependent upon the ladies' product and their talents. 

I would have attended more closely but I was feeling very poorly.

Lorion came in the late afternoon to attend to me. It is not any part of his doing that I took so ill.

He told me to undress for an examination and I refused. 

He insisted upon a full catalog of my injuries, and I lied.

He asked me if I had attempted to heal myself and I denied it.

Lorion warned me of what could happen to an untrained mage who attempts self-healing. I did not listen.

I'd had enough.

A bone which is not properly set before the arm is wrapped up will heal lumpish, or a puncture wound left to seal itself will abscess below the healing scab. Wounds not carefully approximated heal twisted and awry. Calming a necessary fever leaves one sicker. 

Lorion told me all this, and I said nothing, so he sighed and gave in. Of course Lorion's healing spell did far more harm, in time, than good. But that afternoon it restored enough that I was able to sit up and take note of my surroundings and was able to function reasonably well for at least a few weeks.

After that few weeks, of course, I was in bed nearly half a year. 

Taarie bade Lorion stay when he was done; he needed to rest and eat and it was close to curfew.

I was not the only mer taking refuge behind the closed doors of the back rooms of Radiant Raiment. 

That was curious. 

This mer never gave his name. I had not given mine.

He very carefully did not see me, and I granted him the same courtesy. 

He was wearing quite a regal outfit, badly, on top of a couple of layers of other clothes. Someone had coiffed his hair, but he looked uncomfortable under it.

He had been so quiet for so long that while I was in the basement I had never heard him move. At supper he ate with focused desperation; I gave him my share, since I could not eat.

After a nerve-wracking time of silence, during which time it was clear the ladies were waiting for something, the front door was unlocked: 

"Ah!" said the new arrival. "Are we ready to go?"

I knew who it was, of course: 

Auryen Morellus-- a most distinguished person who has been setting up some public amenities to increase the cultural awareness of the denizens of Solitude.

Artists are granted much leeway for us Altmeri, and the museum that he is making is a breathtaking work of art. 

So Alinor has spoken and we Thalmor have been instructed: Stay away from Auryen Morellus. 

Orondil used to relay all kinds of rumors as to goings-on in the Museum; but Elenwen said she'd gotten to go with the Jarl's party to the opening ceremony and there's not much to see yet beyond the dome of the main gallery. Elen makes her own exemptions.

Auryen looked over the nameless mer and approved his appearance. 

"All is in order for your departure," Auryen said. "We'll wait as planned for the guard shift change and then we'll go aboard the ship to Dawnstar. We've had a bit of luck, in that there's thought to be some civil disturbance occurring soon; no one will question why a couple of wealthy mer are choosing to go on board many hours before departure."

Endarie pulled Auryen aside, to speak to him about me.

She said that I was from the Embassy; that there had been some trouble with the other Justiciars; and that I needed to get out of the city and preferably away from the Empire's territory. Apparently there are people she could send me to in the border cities. Windhelm. Riften. Maybe even Raven Rock depending on the weather in the Sea of Ghosts.

"Orondil actually deigned to speak with me this morning," Auryen told her. "He must be frantic. Up till a day or so ago he considered this as he would any other frolic and detour, and had sent word as such to the First Emissary for consideration of disciplinary action. As this young one was sighted frequently in the vicinity of Dragon Bridge, there was no immediate concern."

"There's been some trouble just outside the city. Four mer are known to be dead; one a full Justiciar. Given this circumstance, as well as the current tensions in the city, the Thalmor are quite anxious to have him remanded to the Embassy." 

Auryen turned to me: "So, at this point I will need to speak with you aside."

Auryen demanded to know-- well, everything. My date of arrival; my supervisor; my assignment. Who I had dealt with; what my specific duties were; why was it that I was in trouble with them. 

He wanted to know the name of my parents! And my other kin.

When Auryen sensed my reluctance, he said: "These mer appear to be stupidly ready to throw their lives away for yours. Without an appropriate understanding of the risks, I cannot even begin to help you." 

So, I told him. Somewhat. 

Who my father was-- he grunted sharply at that-- that I was Elenwen's protege; that she had been away attending to other duties for much of the past several months; and that I found it unbearable residing at the Embassy with the currently-assigned Thalmor. 

I did confide that Elenwen-- Elenwen is my kinswoman and my heir, and there still is the legal action pending in regards to the entailment of my father's estate. Currently it is in abeyance and is being managed by an administrator. If something should happen to me, or I choose not to contest her suit, it goes to her. 

He didn't say anything about that, but it was clear from his demeanor that he believed me to suffering from paranoia. And idiocy.

"Go home. Walk back up to the Headquarters, announce yourself to Orondil, and tell him you've had enough. He will, without a doubt, strike your assignment on his own initiative and ship you back to Alinor. Which is where you belong. I'm sure it will be a very minor scandal."

"The Thalmor are not going to disappear you, and certainly Elenwen will not. Just say you want to go home. It's not likely you'll have much of a career for awhile, but at least you will have your life. Go home."

Endarie protested, but Auryen said: "Get him out of your house. The Thalmor are actively looking for him." 

Taarie: "Are they using mages? Or scent-hounds?"

Auryen: "No, but it may come to that. Right now they’re relying on their diplomatic powers... you know, 'in the spirit of cooperation’. Physical house to house checks involving the city guards. They’ve already had that ass Bolgeir traipsing with them through the museum and rifling through the storage area. And there's no point in appealing to the Jarl..."

"She is personally acquainted with this young mer and appears to have taken an interest. It was all I could do to keep her from tagging along to the museum, and I don't even have the attraction of costume displays. I can't imagine she'll hesitate to come over here."

Endarie: "So you're resolved?" 

Auryen: "Afraid so. It would put everyone at risk."

At this point the nameless mer stood up. "Wait now. You’re taking me and not him? All they did was threaten me. He’s the one that had such a bad time. Look at him, you can see the bruises from here. You take him." 

Auryen said, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid that's not possible."

The nameless mer declined. "You know what? I’ve had a good life. I’ve had a long life. He’s a young person. You go ahead. You take him."

Auryen rounded on him: "You are someone’s task to accomplish; just another name on a detainment list. Success in capturing you will not merit an accolade; failure will not draw censure. There are dozens of names on those lists. He is something else again. The First Emissary's staff is likely to turn over every leaf until they locate him."

"In any event," Auryen said. "It does not matter. We're boarding ship, there is not time to make other arrangements or to alter documentation. I'm sorry."

He took the reluctant mer by the arm and they departed.

I think Auryen thought it better to risk the guard patrol.

I had not wanted to go with Auryen and the mer. Where were they even going? 

But now I had no idea what to do or where to hide. 

Justiciar Hinnaro was dead at my hand, and other Thalmor dead at my expense. I could not return to the fold so easily. And Auryen Morellus was right: I was putting these kind people at risk.

So I said I would take nothing more from them. 

Endarie insisted on giving me the clothing I was wearing and gave me some other small things. 

I thanked them for the hospitality and for the healing. 

"Hold on," said Lorion, who had been quietly sitting by this whole time. "Faida owes me a favor and a bit of coin. Why don't we go to the Skeever and see if you can stay there a couple of nights? I'm sure Corpulus will make good on the debt for her." 

He and I were both a little shaky from the healing, and so I agreed to walk with him to the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorion helps Cyrelian find a place of refuge-- and a job-- with his friends the Vinius family.


	8. Cyrelian--Bolthole: Solitude 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian takes a job at the Winking Skeever with the Vinius family to stay out of sight of the Thalmor.

"Take my bag," said Lorion quietly.

He walked us straight up to the guard patrol standing outside the Skeever.

"Oh! Hello, Master Lorion," said one of them, before his sergeant could say anything. 

"Healers' work keeps all hours," said Lorion, and waved off the challenge: "Yes, yes, you know who I am, you saw where I came from, do you see where I'm going? I just want a bath and bed." He turned to me: "Take all that in and tell Sorex I need some more rosebud salve and wintergreen liniment." 

"Hey! Orders are I'm to take all of you..." 

"Go on, get," said Lorion, pushing me towards the Winking Skeever's door. I thumped on it a few times. I could hear him raising his voice behind me, mirroring the sergeant's exasperated tone: "Go ahead then. I'll be more than happy to speak to Aldis in the morning. He can hear all about it from her Ladyship when I'm not there to attend her at.." 

The door swung open. A stocky man took my arm and hauled me inside. "Lorion! Are you going to be chit-chatting all night? I want to lock up." 

"Not up to me, Sorex," he called back. 

"He yours?" the sergeant asked Sorex. 

"Yeah, he's one of my long-term tenants," said Sorex. "Why?" 

"Never mind then," said the sergeant; and then, to Lorion: "You can go."

"Well, that was more trouble than anticipated," said Lorion. "I don't think we'll be trying it again." 

"Yeah, yeah, like I wouldn't be bailing you out in the morning. Or at least the next time the old man puts his knee out." said Sorex, grinning. 

Sorex Vinius is the night counterman at the Winking Skeever. His family runs the place. By the jarl's fiat, it's the only inn in Solitude; which is enough to give any guard-sergeant who likes drinking pause, and Sorex knew it. 

Who's this?" Sorex asked. "Seen 'im before, but I can't place it."

My apprentice-for-the-evening," said Lorion. "Could we eat down by the sauna, please? And is there soup yet or am I all out of luck?" 

Slow night," said Sorex. " Not too many made it out here before the curfew announcement. I gotta heat it up, is that all right?"

Lorion led me down to a seat near the bathing area. No one was near. We could see anyone coming long before they could overhear us. 

"Look," he said. "This isn't going to last long and we need to find you a better solution than mere mad flight. I've been thinking about this..." 

His questions were more gentle than Auryen's, but no less uncomfortable: "Is it true that you're of some social consequence back home?" "When is the last time you've heard directly from the First Emissary? Any idea where she is?" "What contacts have you made here in Haafingar? Is there anyone you can rely on?" "Why exactly do you believe you're going to be rounded up and arrested by the Thalmor, if Orondil's saying you've been on a semi-sanctioned ...hmmm.. sabbatical?" 

Sorex came and went with drinks and food. Soup was easier than solid food, and it was mostly thinned-out broth this time of night. It was near-boiling hot, and I was thankful for it despite the muggy warmth of the room. There was mead, cool and bursting-sweet, and I could feel strength flowing back into me. 

"Auryen said mer are dead," I said finally. 

Lorion scoffed: "You think they'll hold you accountable for that? There's a whole camp of Stormcloaks out there somewhere; Tullius is out looking for it. I"m sure they ran afoul.... oh."

I returned my gaze to the inside of my soup-mug. 

"They were looking for you, weren't they," said Lorion. He sighed. "Well, don't be holding yourself responsible just yet... You can't help war." He set his mug and the mead-bottles aside. 

"We--"... this was the first mention he had made of how very badly I reeked...."--need to bathe," he said. "And rest. You can sleep on the rug in my room tonight; and in the morning we can talk to Corpulus."

The water was just this side of painfully hot; the soap was plentiful. Best of all, the doors were extremely heavy with stout locks. It was by far the lengthiest and most appreciated shower of my life.

I was too keyed-up to sleep, but I forced myself to lie still. Lorion snored faintly, just at the edge of my hearing. I could hear movement in the hallway; the laundry being carried down and the baker going back and forth at her work. 

The next I knew, the light had gone from grey to grey; it was evening, and I was sore from sleeping so long.

The Skeever was barren of life. I had never seen it so vacant. 

"Pull up a seat," said Corpulus. "I think you're my second customer tonight. Damn curfew's going to ruin me."

Corpulus Vinius and his family own at least a half-share of every inn, tavern, and drinking counter in Haafingar. By my best estimate it would take a year-long siege to cut significantly into his profits. Two years to fully consume the provisions in his larder. 

"No hot food tonight," he said. "Isn't worth getting it set up. We've got the baking though, and the ham from earlier." 

I sat at the bar, and watched him put together a couple of plates.

Before we could begin eating, a guard patrol came in from outside and settled down. They were followed by someone familiar to me, who took a chair in the other half of the room. 

Corpulus leaned forward: "Sorex and Lorion spoke with me earlier. If you're willing to help out around here for your room and board, we've got a place for you." 

"Where are they?" I asked.

Corpulus shook his head, as he went to serve the man I recognized: "Sorex has a girl on the Red Wave and Lorion, it's probably better not to ask. Hey, bring those guys their wine." 

And six cups of wine it was. No ale, no mead: Six Imperials, a mixed group of Legionaries and Haafingar guards, with not even one Nord. That was unusual. 

"Who's the Breton, Clodius?" asked Corpulus. 

"Vagrant," said the Imperial, though cheeks full of ham and bread.

"Ah, they're just clearing out the jail," said the man seated by himself at the hall table. "You know the reason. Don't want no one else in there but me till this is done." 

Corpulus sighed. "Do you know when it's gonna be?" 

The big Redguard took the ale, and drank from it. "If I did, I wouldn't tell, so quit askin'." 

He looked with disfavor at the plate I brought him. "No," he said, curt with revulsion. "No meat. I don't eat it." 

Corpulus came back over, wiping his hands on his apron. "He's new, Ahtar, he didn't know. Here, have some of the gravlax. I saved it back for you." 

"Thanks." The Redguard looked up at me. "Sorry. I hate this freak costume. Gotta wear it around the next few days to 'make an impression--'" He made a sour face. Orders." The scars on his face dragged white against his skin as he grimaced. Warpaint had been touched around them, to emphasize them. 

"No... no pardon needed," I said faintly, and retreated back to the counter. 

He watched me go. I could feel the intensity of his gaze on my ears and neck, even through the shelter of my hood. 

There are many men who do not like elves. I told myself it didn't signify.

There was also a certain uncomfortable wariness between himself and his fellow guardsmen, but I was not aware of that significance until later.

Corpulus showed me where the rugs and pallets were kept, and where I would sleep.

It is a busy kitchen, usually. That night it was still except for the distant sound of the wind and the crackle of the hearth. No hot food meant Sorex wasn't traipsing back and forth. Corpulus had gotten the bread set up to rise already. I had no interruptions for the whole night. 

Although I should not have, I worked on healing the embarrassing bruises under my clothes. I could only muster a little magicka, and when it was gone I was gasping with cold despite the warm evening. I curled up on the hot stone floor near the hearth and dozed.

In the early hours before dawn, the baker came in to put in the loaves. She was very pleased to find that I had already made up the fires for her, and swept the ashes from the hearth.

Mariel Vinius came back that morning, sighed at Corpulus and his generosity, and took me out to the walled yard to catechize me in my duties.

It wasn't much different than the punishment-work I'd been put to at the Embassy, but it was soothing in its way. I could hear Corpulus and Mariel happily complaining and bickering back and forth; their little daughter and her friends running in and out of the kitchen and yard; and the homely sounds of cooking and cleaning.

I hung up the fresh herbs she'd brought down from Dragon Bridge.

And cleaned off Mariel's working areas.

Mariel was pleased to find out that I could cook a little. The Skeever was very busy at lunch that day, and there were numbers of folk who lined up to purchase dinner and bottles of mead and ale to take away. Sorex was boiling up innumerable pots of broth in the main kitchen, so I had to work on one of the cookpots in the serving area. There wasn't much chatter. I stayed in the service areas out of sight of the patrons as instructed. Mariel didn't want any more trouble than could be helped.

Mariel came to me while I was working and asked what trouble I was in.

"There's a Justiciar dead, on account of looking for me," I said. "I wasn't supposed to be out of the Embassy, and now I'm in too much trouble to get out of." 

"Are you one of the inquisitors?" she demanded. 

"Inquisitors?" I was confused. "We don't have those. At least, not at the Embassy." I rubbed at the itchy scabs on my arm, where a deep cut had been healed. "I never saw any, unless you'd count the Third Emissary; he is, ah, a little.." Overenthusiastic sometimes during the initial detainment processing. Elenwen didn't like it but Rulindil'd often received commendations for his work, so there was nothing she could really say about it. 

"Well, if the Thalmor think he's a little funny, then I'd say he's a fair lunatic," said Muriel. "You told Lorion the First Emissary is your kin?" 

I nodded: "Elenwen's ... ah--kind of like my aunt?" Elen is my sister, but we have different mothers and were born well over a hundred years apart. My eldest sisters' great-grandchildren are my peers. It would have been a near-unimaginable gulf to her; I hesitated.

"Oh, your great-aunt," said Mariel, drawing her own conclusions. "Do you know if she would help you?" 

I laughed: "She's my officer. I think she will have me prosecuted." 

Mariel scoffed. "Family is everything," she said. "Especially for elves." She picked up her laundry basket. "Even for you Thalmor idiots. You'll see."

After we ate lunch, she said: "Well, better safe then sorry. Come with me." She showed me a small hatch, under the back stairs which rise from the basement. It looks one of the waste-water sluices, too small to fit even a child. She lifted the hatch to show me how it opened much wider than it appeared.

It led to a basement area I had not seen before, and a ladder to the outside. 

I was astounded at this level of trust. 

I tried to explain why it was not warranted--- but Mariel brushed me off. 

She explained that it was not likely that the Thalmor would subject the Winking Skeever to a comprehensive search, having been led all over the attics and boiler-rooms by Sorex yesterday. If they did... well... the grate opened to another walled yard, abandoned and overgrown. One could walk to the right between the old city wall and the new all the way to Castle Dour. Or one could walk to the left and find the door to the westernmost tower, a structure which was superseded years ago by the main gate; the guards patrol on top of it, but no longer go inside. It would be difficult but not impossible to go between patrols and drop off of the outside city wall to freedom. 

The siege engineers discovered this bolt-hole some time later after mopping up from the crisis; I am given to understand it occasioned much profanity, when they found themselves in the Skeever's basement.

Once my gratitude was firmly established, Mariel put me back to work.

The bathing rooms, which I had found so pleasant, were somewhat beyond filthy on closer inspection. My lone set of gifted clothing would get wet and stained, and it was very warm in the rooms from the hot water. 

I stripped down to scrub and immediately noticed a problem. The bruises on my body were horrible and embarrassing and-- with my thin magicka-- still well beyond my ability to heal. I thought of a different solution. Illusion spells covered the problem up nicely and I was happy with the result. My skin would no longer occasion comment from the casual observer. 

The scabs were already flaking clean from the healing lacerations on my chest and arm and back, which were now down to no more than silvery reddened scars, thanks to Lorion's ministrations. Surely, once my magicka renewed, I would be able to heal up mere bruises? 

I will spare a description of the situation in the Winking Skeever privies, which were less well kept than the baths.

Lorion had encouraged me to think about possible allies.

I had made at least one friend who would help me in the palace.

The one advantage that I had was that the Jarl knew me. We had spoken on several occasions, while waiting for this or that court function to begin. I had a great deal of sympathy for her position, beset as she was. Play the fool and bear the mockery, or be crushed. 

Elisif can do no secret favors. All that she does is recorded and proclaimed. This circumstance is why I had not even considered going to her for help. 

But Auryen Morellus was right. I cannot simply vanish. That has generated panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian attempts to determine an exit strategy, and is granted a reprieve.


	9. Cyrelian--Worries: Solitude 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thalmor search for Cyrelian has created unrest in Solitude. More trouble is said to come. The Thalmor have fled, leaving their least-competent agent behind.

Mariel had her own worries.

"I sent for Faida to come down tomorrow," said Corpulus.

Minette had other ideas: "I don't want to go, Mama!"

"It's alright, baby," said Sorex. "We're just going to send you where those nasty Stormcloaks and blue-rags can't get at you."

"I'm not a baby! I'm almost a woman now!!" 

"Yeah?" Sorex laughed. "Then be a good little lady and help Aunt Faida with her cask storage problems and her menus, okay?" 

"It won't be for long," Mariel Vinius said. "Only until this city calms down." 

Minette sought an appeal to greater authority: "Papa!"

"It's alright, sweetheart," said Corpulus. "You'll be safe in Dragon Bridge. We'll know right where you are the whole time. And no one can get you."

Minette's face was still mutinous. 

"I'll let you serve if you're careful," said Faida. "Maybe you could even advise the patrons if they have questions about the mead--"

"And I do need some help with the venison sausage cassoulet. It's still too dry. Your brother's certainly no assistance. Last time Corpulus sent Sorex down to help out, he drank up all of the Black-Briar reserve and spent most of the night with his head hanging over the drain." 

Faida winked at me as she and Minette went out, still talking.

"Oh, and I think the onion farmer is cheating me, we need to go down and look at the books again, if you don't mind. You think we'll have time for that?"

I had the workings of an idea. Another few days went by without incident.

Lorion came in one evening with Sorex, and an acquaintance of theirs from Castle Dour, Praefect Caelestis. I was a bit alarmed by this, but Lorion calmed me down. He'd discovered that the civil authorities had no order for my detainment, and the Praefect had news that I needed to hear.

"The Thalmor Headquarters is standing empty. They all left this morning, by the harbor gate." 

This was startling news: "Do we know why?" I asked. 

"There was a little pushback from the search party. For you, hah?" He grinned without humor. "We had some citizens assemble in the Blue Palace courtyard who had somethin' to say about it. Followed the Thanes home." 

He drank: "My opinion is those Thalmor pricks just wanted to leave us to deal with what's coming. Assholes. Wouldn't even let us keep that bastard down at Northwatch. Now we have to deal with the security risk of him being in Castle Dour. Not like we're getting any help from the stupid fuckin' guards. I think they're all goin' over to the Stormcloaks anyways."

I said: "At least five Thalmor are known to have been killed this week, you know." 

"Ah? Good fuckin' riddance." Maybe this was why Caelestis was still only a praefect. It took him a little to notice the obvious. "Sorry," he said. Praefect Caelestis was quite evidently not sorry. "Hope they weren't your friends." 

"Not at all," I said, as gracefully as possible. I wasn't sorry either. "Did Ambassador Orondil go as well?" 

Caelistis worked his way through the last crust of pie. "Yeah. He left in the second party that went. Seven in the first, eight in the next." 

"Do you know Thurindir? Did he leave?" 

"Dunno. I mean, I bet he did, since it looked like they all went. Not sure which one he is." He frowned. "Can't tell you all from sight. What's he like?"

"He's a miserable arrogant jackass," I sighed. "So I don't suppose you'd be able to pick him out of the crowd." 

"Ah." Caelestis smirked, appreciative.

"He's the dark-headed one," I said. "Does that help?" 

"Oh, yeah. He was the one yelling at the Ambassador. Got some balls. I think he's only a sergeant. They all left together." 

"Who's on door duty?" I asked. 

"Us Legion," he said. "Don't want some idiot civilian getting the wrong fuckin' idea and getting into something. Who knows what kinda shit you people keep in there. Daedra or some shit maybe. Be a real fuckin' treat."

I had never before given any thought to the guards or their opinions.

With the imminent threat of detention gone, I ventured out to run an errand or two for Mariel-- this is Jala, the greengrocer.

I had made her acquaintance a few months previously as I went about my sham duties in the city. It is impossible to be about in the market and not encounter Jala. Her voice effortlessly pierces the air over the other vendors in the Well District, and if she wants to talk with you, there is no evading her conversation.

Jala warned me, in a lower tone than usual, to be careful around the fishmonger and his wife. The man slated for execution happened to be their kin, and everyone anticipated trouble. I noted both frown and improvised weapon.

And then Jala went back to teasing me about her 'good friend' who wants to speak with me. Apparently her friend has something of a taste for elves?

She keeps at it until I finally concede the information that I have been in Skyrim quite some time and have no ah... particular friends... and of course, Jala has heard about the party at the Embassy. Good gods. 

I am blushing. 

Jala is merciless. 

Thankfully I saw Taarie and excused myself to go express my gratitude.

Taarie and Endarie had an errand which coincided with mine, and which provided a ready excuse.

Endarie caparisoned and wigg'd me like a show horse, and I walked slowly to the Blue Place under the weight of fur and velvet. 

The ladies' errand was a pretext: Elisif is of course already their client. My friends the tailors wanted protection from the coming storm. Elisif said that she would speak with Captain Aldis.

I explained to Elisif that I was not missing. Orondil and I had simply missed each other. Elenwen had intended to send me on to Winterhold, but then this emergency, first with Ulfric's capture and escape; now with these dragons... 

Elisif was anxious to have the First Emissary beholden to her, and so she promised some small aid-- a letter of introduction from the court wizard, and a travel allowance.

My request prompted a little debate between the Jarl and Steward Firebeard-- this was after money was mentioned-- and it was determined that Firebeard would send a response to the Thalmor Headquarters soon. 

Mind you, I did not care whether or not Elisif gave me aid to go to Winterhold; what mattered was that I had come to her to beg that specific boon. It had been made a matter of record by the court scribe, whom I saw noting down the details even down to the manner of my dress.

Vana the baker was in the kitchens. "What're you doing here so early?" I asked.

"You should stay in the back. And keep your head covered. Don't want them ears sticking out." She shook her head. "Bad people about tonight, and they're sayin' the Stormcloaks are gonna cause another riot."

Needless to say, I did not linger in the inferno-chamber the bakery had become. Sweltering in fur, I changed back to my servant's outfit and stashed the ridiculous garb.

I took a look in the dining rooms: I saw families eating dinner.

A bard or two from the College...

Jorn said that there was a rumor going around that the execution wasn't going to be for another month, on the Jarl's birthday. He said curfew tonight was lifted until two hours past midnight. He didn't know why.

"Some new faces tonight," said Lorion. "Not good ones either." 

Lorion told me that someone was coming out to speak with me in a bit; this person had no authority, but... I confess I did not completely understand his smirk. Had I known I would have taken refuge in the overheated kitchens. 

Behind Lorion I saw Corpulus allowing one of the beggars in for the night.

I know him, of course; he's one of our informants. Not directly. He has no idea that what little work he does, he does for us. Not that what he overhears is likely to be all that critical, but all that we gather is sifted and weighed. 

I asked did he want some mead; I thought Corpulus would allow it.

He wasn't rude; but short, said he'd get it himself if he wanted it.

I gave up on trying to get any news from him.

Some men don't like elves.

There were some unsavory characters filtering in as the night progressed.

They weren't abiding by the city's weapons restrictions, and didn't put their gear up on the rack, either. 

Corpulus let it go. He continued serving, tight-lipped.

Jorn and Lisette played louder, something skirling with pipe and drum, to drown out all conversation.

"I thought all us rats escaped this ship," grated an unpleasant, nasal voice.

Of course. Gilgondoron.

For Lorion to say that Gilgondoron has no authority is a colossal understatement. 

No one trusts Gilgondoron with anything. 

If Justiciars are the Fists of the Thalmor; agents like Gilgondoron are its... I should not resort to crudeness.

We went aside. 

If the Thalmor did not raise up plenty of bottom-feeders like Gilgondoron on Alinor, sadly, we would have to go out and recruit. 

Gilgondoron is the perfect example of why my father's experiments with egalitarianism have not met with uniform praise. He's from the slums of Alinor-the-city and has never lost that unpleasant affected accent. While he is not unintelligent, the Thalmor's best efforts at education did not bestir his parochial mind, though it certainly gave him an arrogance unbefitting his station. He is a pattern book of rectitude. 

When Gilgondoron is called to Elenwen's attention, even she rolls her eyes. Particularly after a glass or two of wine. 

Of course, we have had him style himself "Thalmor Agent" and have him skulk around the city soliciting cooperation from its citizens. We thank him very much for the information which he gathers, mark it as marginally reliable, and place it at the bottom of the box marked "Not Urgent." Eventually it will be logged by one of the Justiciars and formally rejected. Otherwise Orondil and Elenwen would constantly be plagued by the attention-seeking and the covetous. Stalking-goat duty assignees generally burn out pretty quickly, but Gilgondoron is too stupid to do anything other than revel in his work. He is not too stupid to have failed to realize that Ambassador Orondil had abandoned him to his fate, and he was deeply unhappy about it. 

I shrugged. "They say Orondil's been chasing around the city looking for me all week," I said. "I had no idea. I've been here the whole time, waiting on reassignment authorization." 

Gilgondoron barked a laugh: "Bullshit. You've been out on a frolic." 

Thankfully Gilgondoron is thoroughly desensitized by now to the scornful eye-roll, because I could not help myself: "Yes, yes of course. Elenwen's people are so incompetent that they let me live in the wild for months all of three-quarters of a mile from the Embassy. With regular visits by myself to the nearby village. And they followed up that incompetence by going house to house in Solitude whilst all the while the mer they were looking for was serving up drinks at the local. Seriously."

He huffed: "Don't be an ass." 

"Fine," I said. "Do you need help? A way to get out of the city, perhaps? Papers? Money?" 

This was deeply stupid on my part. I had nothing to bluff with. But I won: he glared at me. I had touched his pride.

"Perhaps," he grated. "I'll come see you if I do."

"In any event," I said, "I'm not going to wait forever. If I'm not here, you can go ahead and tell Elenwen I've gone on to Winterhold as per the original plan." I smiled. "If she's in a good mood, maybe you can take over my current assignment..."

"Hey!" called Sorex. "Get back to work! There's piss all over the floor of the backhouse."

Gilgondoron's expression was a treat to long savor.

"Cheer up," I said, grinning. "I might be mopping up piddle, but at least I'm not Ambassador Orondil. Who's going to have to explain to the First Emissary why he couldn't find me. In his favorite tavern." Eventually it penetrated Gilgondoron's thick consciousness that he would be the one to bring Elenwen word of Orondil's stunning oversight. He became much more jovial. 

"Well, I've got to go meet with my mop-bucket asset," I said. "The things we do for the Dominion. Don't come here for at least two days, all right? Got it? Keep your ears down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Solitude erupts into chaos as most of the Haafingar Guard rebels, joining the Stormcloak rebels. Ahtar the Executioner is forced to go into hiding as the mob hunts him for his role in the death of Roggvir.


	10. Cyrelian--Haafingar's Mutiny: Solitude 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahtar the Executioner runs to the Winking Skeever to take safety. The Vinius family give him a place to stay out of sight, while the angry Stormcloak-allied mob continues to hunt him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: lots of blood, and a decapitation.

I could not sleep; I was too invigorated from besting Gilgondoron, though that was a cheap victory. After mopping up up the privies, it was time to rake out and stoke the bake-ovens. 

With Vana present and working, it was impossible for me to sleep there, so I went down and cleaned the sauna and the pool. 

Sorex came running in, gasped with relief when he saw me, and said: "There's trouble outside, a lot of it. Don't follow me. Stay here. We're keeping the doors locked up." This had been the fourth or fifth prognostication of doom from him in as many days. I went back to scrubbing. The showers needed particular attention.

When the door opened, I did not look up again. It was not yet six in the morning. The Skeever had been closed for hours and would not even normally open till noon; the only person coming down here would be Mariel with the laundry.

I don't even know why I looked around. Maybe I smelled that coppery stink, even over the soap-and-vinegar and the hot sulfurous water. 

The blood had soaked through his leathers; ran in rivulets down his legs and arms; it was clotted in the fur and in his hair; was caught in clumps between his toes.

For a long moment he stared through me. 

I was the mouse to his hawk.

And then he smiled, an expression which looks ill on him.

"Go on," he said. I"ll wait till you're done."

I have no idea why I continued scrubbing... or why he didn't step into the unoccupied booth. He made as if to undo his buckles and noted the blood clotting there.

He hesitated. Then he sat wearily on the bench and--this is the odd part, I had already noted he was a terse man-- he chatted with me, as easily as if we had been old friends, with reference to the weather, and the baking going on, and Minette's birthday coming up... and... 

His eyes were very bright, his arms were wrapped tight round each other. I could see him shuddering. He would stop himself, grip his own arms tighter, and continue, his voice measured and pleasant and calm. As if we were two old friends meeting in the market.

I did not know what to do.

I could have gotten up. I could have gone to him.

I continued to work.

At that point Mariel Vinius came in. Her hair was down and she was in just shawl and smock, barefoot, having come straight down from bed.

The corner of his mouth pulled his scars white as he smiled up at her too.

"Sweet Kyne," she said. "What happened out there?"

"Mari," he said, so softly I could barely hear it over the water. "I can't... "

Mariel Vinius is made of stouter stuff than I.

She hung up my tunic and her shawl, and stepped forward to help him. 

His hands were shaking too badly to grip the buckle straps or even push down his own smallclothes. Mariel stripped him down efficiently, kirtled her own smock, and hauled him into the freshly-scrubbed shower. 

"Get some charcoal going in the sauna," she directed, as she scrubbed him head to foot. At her direction I brought more soap and scrubbing-cloths and towels. "Ahtar, I can't do anything about this hair," she said. "It's all going to have to come out." 

I could hear her grousing as he refused to let her touch it.

I got the charcoal lit and the wet herbs readied, and the bucket for steam. A sauna was an odd choice for a warm day, but the baths were cool and damp so far. It took the two of us to walk Ahtar there, as his thighs had started to shake, and we did not want to track back through the trail of blood he had left.

There was blood on the floor, on the walls; on the bench and rug, on the ceiling... I followed it back to a narrow doorway that I hadn't known existed. I worked on cleaning it up as I listened to Mariel murmuring to him.

"It all has to be cleaned up," said Mariel, coming back for her shawl. "We can't let him be found here. I'll get the others. Go sit with Ahtar. I don't want him left alone."

I obeyed. Vana and Corpulus came down; Corpulus expressing great anxiety because Sorex was somewhere outside. 

They were debating whether to go look for him when Sorex came in.

There was one bad moment where Ahtar insisted on coming out to talk to Sorex-- 

"I can't believe -- I can't believe you actually did it." Sorex was also babbling with shock. "Couldn't happen to a nicer guy--" 

Corpulus grabbed Sorex's shirt in his fist and dragged him out bodily. "Go clean up the bolt-hole if you can't keep your mouth shut!" 

I saw the moment where Ahtar's eyes refocused: 

"No company," he snapped, and shut the sauna door in our faces.

I went to help Sorex, who was swearing and hauling buckets around. 

"Fuck me, Roggvir," hissed Sorex. "Cleaning up your messes to the last." 

He squinted at me. "Don't tell Pa I said that." 

We worked in silence.

We found the puddles where Ahtar'd rinsed his hands and head and mopped it all down the grate.

I could hear the water running down below, in the sewers. 

"What about outside?" I asked. "Fixing to rain," said Sorex. "Besides, I'm pretty sure where he came in and believe me, we don't want to go down there right now." 

"Where is it?" I asked. Sorex eyed me for a bit, and came to a decision about whether he thought it wise to trust me. 

"Never you mind," he said.

The Winking Skeever has as many ratways and bolt-holes as its namesake vermin, and only the Vinius family knows them all.

After cleaning up the disaster in the baths and storage rooms we all needed our clothing dealt with. I tried not to watch Mariel sluicing down the grass in the corner along the wall.

It was one of the last beautiful days of summer; Vana and I had no complaints about being set this task.

I found myself eyeing every grate and wall-crack for signs of passage.

When I was done I went to sit in the brewing cellar. 

I noted earlier that I was not well, but I had no idea of the significance of my symptoms at the time. 

I ascribed the passing nausea to a state of nerves and my weakness to the bruises. The illusion spell was starting to slip a little; I did my best to reinforce it. I could only drink a little-- I had given up on even trying to eat--so I was living on mead and broth and the Skeever's rich porter. 

Whenever I had a little magicka I stopped and healed myself.

Mariel caught me resting. 

"I want to send you up to sit with Ahtar," she said. "He shouldn't be alone, not now; and that fool Sorex would just set him off again." 

I refused. 

"You'll be all right with him. I just want you to get him to eat something and maybe lie down to rest. Last time was terrible for him, and after what happened this morning--" 

She sighed.

"You know we all knew him, right? Roggvir? One of the city guard? Ahtar worked together with him for years-- was even his shift-captain once. I know he's really struggling. Please?"

Mariel showed me another walkway I had not noticed.

She led me around and up the stone stairs, to the back door of an apartment...

... And sent me to a stair hall which led to a floor hatch and a hidden doorway, which led to a long passage debouching into an alley and another ladder... another floor hatch...

I found myself in a larder of sorts and wondered how all of these bulky items had gotten up here...where was I? 

The door was locked. 

I knocked. It was snatched open before I could lower my hand.

"Get out." 

"Mariel sent..." 

"You tell Mariel I don't need a nursemaid. Go." 

"Mar---"

He cut me off: 'The only person I want to see IS Mariel, and only if she's come up to tell me that Jala's got it, understand? Otherwise you can tell her-- " 

He is a big, imposing man, near tall as I but much heavier with muscle. I backed away from the force of his annoyance. 

"Tell her and Corpulus that I'm thankful for the help. I want to be alone." 

He softened his tone a little. 

"You can tell Mari I'm just gonna get drunk and sleep it out till the Legion gets back. She shouldn't worry. Jorluf said he was going to try to keep it from coming to fighting and I believe him. It's just his people and riffraff left on the street right now. Just keep the Skeever's doors locked, and all we need to do is keep--" He grinned wholly without humor, his face a grotesque mask: "--our heads low." 

"What... what is this thing that Mari needs to make sure goes to Jala?"

"A book," Ahtar told me. "A ledger-book, plainbound. It's in Corpulus and Mari's rooms, they know where it's at. I didn't have time-- Aldis woke me up this morning without warning for the execution and told no one at all, the fool. Mari's going to get Jala that book, and with any luck get Jala onto that Eight-damned boat."

He saw my look of confusion, and said: "Jala's my wife. If they ran me out, they're going to do the same to her, too. She needs to be on her way to Cyrodiil. It's some documents she needs-- deeds and whatnot--I had Falk get them out of storage and had them bound together. She'll know what it is." 

Ahtar rubbed his face. "We planned for something like this awhile back, but I thought this execution would just bring the usual trouble. Maybe a little worse since Roggvir's a townie and not just some bandit. But then the city guard decided to--" He broke off, then: "Damn Aldis. I warned him what would happen. Threats against me, I can live with. Not against Jala. She needs to go."

I wended my way back through storage area and alley, ears burning. "Wife," he'd said. 

There had been too much in my imagining. 

I went to remind Mariel Vinius about the book.

Mariel wasn't anywhere I could locate her, but it was clear from the noise that the bar and dining room were open, so I went to talk to Corpulus--and immediately retreated. 

Gilgondoron.

Lorion exhaled when he saw me: "Thank heavens. It was a mess out there at dawn." 

The Argonian he was with hissed with relief as well: "This is the one with the stupid friend, yes? Tell him to take his friend and begone." 

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gilgondoron approaching. He stuck his pointed chin over my shoulder, and leaned close, causing my skin to ripple with distaste.

I endured it for the sake of whispering to him before he could speak to me: "Jaree-Ra is an informant I've been cultivating." Gilgondoron made a noise of protest but I overrode him: "I think he'll be useful if you're careful, but it'll need a pretty delicate touch, and it has to be done now. Thought you'd be the best mer for the job." 

I took Lorion in tow and we abandoned our lizard companion to a miserable fate.

Lorion had gone with Sorex that morning to an execution which had developed into something else: 

"Captain Aldis was going to have it happen very quickly, but when he gave the signal, the executioner did not move..." 

"Slow down, slow down," I interrupted him. "Someday I might have to relay this back to Alinor as if I were present, so let's make sure I have all of the details." 

Lorion shook his head at me.

"What?" I said. "The Thalmor'll never credit that I was downstairs cleaning the bathing rooms during all of this."

"The executioner let the accused Stormcloak sympathizer Roggvir give his entire speech."

"Some in the crowd were saying that he wouldn't do it-- that he would refuse to swing the axe! I looked around and I only saw four or five guards..."

"He leaned toward Aldis and he said something-- not even sure what it was, it made no sense." 

Lorion finished his mead and I gave him mine. I hadn't touched it. 

"Sorex and I were up near the front, so if we didn't hear it properly, no one did."

"And he gave the stroke." Lorion drank in long gulps. "When the executioner swung, he didn't jump back from the blood-spray. He stepped into it, and it just covered him head to foot." 

"That's odd," I said. 

"Aldis gave the order to have Roggvir's head put up on the spike-- the executioner said-- we all heard this: 'I told you I'm done, Aldis. Find another one of your soldiers to do it. If you can' and walked off."

"What were the guards doing?" I asked. 

"Trying to get the crowd to disperse," said Lorion. "They were having a little trouble. People were still gathering. Sorex was yelling things and I thought he was going to get us into a fight so I was trying to get him out of there." He drank again. "Then the guards started having trouble with each other."

"One of them ran up to try to grab the head."

"That's when it got started, guard versus guard."

"The executioner jumped down and got in the midst of them."

"The executioner was right in the thick of it, still dripping with blood. Grabbed somebody's hand-axe, right out of his hands. He didn't hit anyone with the weapon-edge though; I saw him hitting people with the blunt edge. He was yelling at them, trying to break it up." 

I had my head in my hands on the table, pressing on my eyeballs, listening to Lorion speak and trying to burn the vision into my mind. 

I wish I could say it was a Thalmor memory technique, but it was mere self-indulgence.

I was letting myself fantasize shamelessly, myself there in armor, holding the guards back by strength of arms to allow the retreat... 

Lorion told me that the vendor kids started pelting the assailant-guards with dung, allowing Aldis, the executioner, and the lone loyal guard to retreat back towards Castle Dour. Captain Aldis swung the gates shut. Right in the face of the executioner, to hear Lorion say it. About an hour later the blacksmith came out and struck the lock off with a chisel. And that was that; the Stormcloak-aligned guardsmen now held the fortress at the center of the city.

"No one knows where the executioner is, though," Lorion said. "Those guards have been out looking for him since dawn; say they're going to do him like he did Roggvir." 

"Mhm," I said. "So what about the one who gave the order?" 

"Aldis?" Lorion shrugged. "I expect he got himself to the Blue Palace. Any Imperial who's not stranded here today is up there as well." Lorion finished off my mead. "Or they're dead," he said.

I brought around a few cups of wine and stopped to talk with the Imperials, confirming Lorion's story. They were irritated that Captain Aldis hadn't bothered to warn anyone in command that morning for the execution. He had just led out the night shift guards to go wake up the executioner and commenced. 

"So what's going on out there now?" I asked. 

"What's goin' on is that the fuckin' Empire just lost Solitude," said Praefect Caelestis. "To a bunch of raggy fat-ass city guards no less." 

"Where, ah-- isn't there supposed to be a Legion here? And a general?" 

Clodius cleared his throat: "General Tullius got word two days ago that there was a major Stormcloak enemy force in the area-- there'd been some fighting, apparently, with some of the Thalmor from Northwatch. Rumor Ulfric's little navy's coming in, too. So the bulk of us are somewhere in Haafingar, looking for..." 

Praefect Caelistis laughed. "They ain't no fuckin' 'Stormcloak enemy force' in Haafingar," he said.

Clodius looked at him. "All there is in Haafingar, Cap, is a buncha fuckin' Nords. Fighting each other over Nord shit. Aint no fuckin' difference one from the other." Caelistis went back to his wine. 

Behind them, I could hear the Argonian talking to Gilgondoron. Argonians laugh like gravel sliding down a mountain.

I spoke to Clodius aside for a bit. 

You will recall that I have said that, the witticisms of the Justiciars aside, the Nords of Skyrim are just as attuned to the rule of law as the bureaucrats of Alinor or the councilors in Cyrodiil. Perhaps even more so, given that there is not a large standing military presence with which to keep order. 

Up till two months past, Roggvir had been a member of the Solitude city guard. 

He had in fact been disciplined after the Ulfric incident; but there had been a comprehensive review of the staffing policies and procedures of the city gate guard at that time. Roggvir had served out a time of suspension and been allowed to return to work for some months. 

Clodius had no idea why Roggvir had suddenly been arrested.

One of the provisional officers confirmed this: 

Two months ago a chamber court had convened at the Blue Place, after which a warrant had gone out for Roggvir's arrest, based on what had happened the night of High King Torygg's death. 

There were protests after Roggvir was taken into custody. He was not taken to Castle Dour's jail. Even Aldis had thought better of that. Roggvir was sent to Falkreath and jailed there. He was to have been tried at Helgen. 

Events supravened.

The Jarl of Falkreath grew weary of hosting Roggvir in his jail, so Roggvir was returned by cart to Solitude. 

Aldis-- Tullius was absent-- ordered Roggvir confined at Northwatch. The Thalmor declined the honor. I had missed this happy event, being a resident of the wild at that time. 

I'll put it plainly: Aldis should have had Roggvir taken to Cyrodiil for trial. Even for treason there is process of law; and at the time of Roggvir's action or inaction there was no war. Ulfric did not raise his banner that day or even that week. 

And there had been no trial; not even a public decree by the Jarl. 

Captain Aldis of the Haafingar Guard had ordered and conducted Roggvir's execution purely on his own authority. 

A fair number of his own guardmen had decided that they did not like this precedent.

So, the administrative officers of Tullius' legion and its noncombatants;

A few random Imperials --and other undesirables such as elves and Argonians-- together with what was left of the loyalist Haafingar Guard, were now besieged at the Winking Skeever. 

Their remaining brethren huddled at the Blue Palace. 

We do have better beer.

I spoke with Corpulus about Ahtar's demand. 

"Sorex and Mariel tried earlier," he said. "Guard isn't letting any of us get near the marketplace. No one's coming in or out till Ulfric's boys all get here. Don't want messages getting out to Tullius, I expect." He opened another bottle of wine. 

"They know all of us on sight, so..." Corpulus shrugged. "No way we're getting a book to her or anything else. They won't even let us talk to her." 

"What will you do?" I asked. 

"Sit back, relax, and hope they don't get the idea to batter down my door," he said, easily. "I told Jorluf that I'd serve them tomorrow through the side window if his guardsmen left me alone. So far they have." 

"These men, they ah..." I motioned to the room full of Imperial legionaires. "know about all this?" 

"Sure," said Corpulus. "No one's itching for a real fight. There's been some talking back and forth already. Likely it'll come down to whoever's legion gets here first. Ulfric or Tullius.'" 

There are times, I think, in one's life where one's awareness sharpens to a fine point; where one recognizes the precipice and makes a choice: stumble back, or leap. This was one such. The chatter in the room receded as I considered. 

"The guards out there don't know me yet as one of yours," I said. "I'll get that book to Jala."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian does Ahtar the Executioner a favor: He brings Ahtar's wife, Jala, a very important book-- and feigns an errand to help get her on board ship.


	11. Cyrelian-- Jala's Gift: Solitude 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian and Jala fool the Haafingar Guard into allowing them to go down to the harbor and to board her ship. Jala begs Cyrelian to get her husband Ahtar out of the city, safely. By any means necessary. 
> 
> Jala gives a gift.

I left the Winking Skeever via one of its back doors and headed to the market with Jala's book. 

Lorion shadowed me in case I got arrested.

The way to hide something is to not hide it. I handed the book straight over to the first guard who challenged me. 

He squinted at it.

Whilst the guard was puzzling over the book's contents-- I had opened it to what looked like forty years of Cyrodiilic property-tax records-- the herald began declaiming: "People of Solitude! A new day has dawned in this fair city. No longer shall we suffer the indignities and the cronyism..." 

The news from today should have been compelling, but not from this orator. 

I sighed. 

Perhaps I was naive in this, but I suppose I had hoped that a change in administration would have meant blessed silence. That bastard of a herald had switched sides.

Apparently a Captain Jorluf is now in charge.

I'd noted the Haafingar guards' change in attire. The grace notes of Stormcloak blue everywhere. Someone'd had a bale of blue cloth somewhere and a few tins of paint.

This was no long- planned revolt. Or at least, it hadn't been planned for today. Some of those shields appeared to be still damp. 

A few men here and there were in full Stormcloak livery. I didn't recognize any of them as former Haafingar guards and they appeared to be gawking about. Less familiar with the city. I assumed they were from the Stormcloak recruitment camp which had popped up outside of Dragon Bridge this summer.

Eventually the guard got bored-- "What'n Oblivion is this? This part looks like a marriage-contract." 

"Hah?" I said, and feigned stupid. "Dunno." I squinted at it. "Don't read so good. What's it say?" 

It actually was a marriage-contract, Ahtar's and Jala's in fact, signed and sealed, and bound together with the rest of the legal documents. It looked like the original. That was interesting. We would keep such a thing under lock and key in a registry office. 

I wondered whether Nords had a Recorder of Deeds or whether they just shuttled important and irreplaceable documents about as the fancy took them. 

The guard flipped pages and continued to run his finger laboriously down each line.

Behind me I could see another guardsman posting up notices, which looked fascinating. Damn it. I had just claimed the benefit of illiteracy, so I could hardly go over and look. It looked like writing, not pictures.

Unfortunately, that guard recognized me. 

"That elf. He stays at the Skeever," said the guard, pointing at me. 

Well, so much for subterfuge. 

"Tomatoes," I said, when they demanded to know what I was doing in the marketplace. I did not budge from this assertion. "Forty pounds," I said. 

One of them left, presumably in search of higher authority.

"What do you need that book for?" asked the Stormcloak officer. Another Stormcloak came up behind us and stood by. 

"Dunno," I said. "Bring Jala the book so she can go down and get the tomatoes," I recited. "Corpulus wants them, so he can make tomato-bread." 

I knew this would draw interest, tomato-bread is a favorite late-summer treat and I'd heard patrons talking about it for days. I had helped Mariel put up the dried frost-mirram for it. 

"If we get tomatoes in, there's tomato-bread in the morning. If not..." I frowned. "I guess there isn't." I tried to sound as if I were too stupid to have a personal stake in the matter. 

I didn't. 

In truth I could keep no food down at all, not that it mattered.

The Haafingar guards whispered back and forth with the Stormcloaks. 

After more rifling of pages, I was permitted to approach Jala with the book.

"A gift!" Jala crowed brightly. "What's this?," she demanded. "A gift? For me?" 

And Jala started right back in with me, as if I had never left. 

She wanted to know where I was staying; what I was doing; who I was talking to-- what?--whether my change in employment was treating me well; how did I like the accommodations at the Skeever. Whether I was eating properly... 

A green apple was foisted upon me; it was all I could do to resist being gifted more produce.

Jala took the book from me and began to flip through it. 

She froze for a moment, going perfectly still. I could see her continuing to read the same page, over and over.

"Thanks," she said eventually, in her same raucous voice, pitched up to carry over the market. "This is all kinds of mess and you can tell him I said so. Forty pounds?!" 

I nodded. 

She slapped the book shut.

"Corpulus knows I don't keep that much in stores," Jala said. "We'll have to go to the docks." 

She shoved the book back into my arms and directed me to come along. 

"Hey! Addvar-- I'm going to the harbor. Shop's all yours. Enjoy yourself till I get back." 

She took a couple of keys out of her pouch, dropped them into her open till, and set it on top of the stall. 

Addvar said nothing. He looked at the Stormcloaks and frowned. He came over and grudgingly picked up Jala's till, making his way back to his spot.

"Lady," said the Stormcloak officer, "We're not letting anyone go out of this city."

Jala ignored him. She squinted at the lower-ranking Stormcloak: "Here. Come along with us and help carry things back and you can have potatoes and onions with your supper tonight. I'll make it worth your time."

When the lesser Stormcloak came forward towards us, Jala grabbed my arm and shoved the book at him. By reflex he took it. 

"Carry this thing for me, will you?" she said. "It's enormous." 

"What IS this thing?" the Stormcloak made the mistake of asking. 

"Message to General Tullius, telling him that you boys are invitin' him up to come up for some spiced wine and meat pies," Jala snapped. "Whattaya think?" She sighed, aggrieved. "It's the manifest log for the purser. Shows what I owe him and vice versa. You think I carry gold about? You boys wanna eat, let me go. If not, fine by me. I could use the business but it's not worth the argument." 

The Stormcloak officer-- obviously serving as the guards' shift captain--held a brief chat with the Haafingar guardsmen in which the name "Jorluf" featured prominently.

"Send some of your boys along with me," Jala suggested, finally. "Could use the help carrying it all up the hill." 

"Go keep an eye on her, Oswulf," sighed the Stormcloak officer. And then: "Keep an eye on that book," he directed. "I don't know what's in it, but I'm not letting it out of here. You can watch her write down her figures for the account, but that's it. Got it?"

We walked out the sea-gate and down to the port, Jala forcing poor Oswulf the Stormcloak into conversation all the while.

By the time we were at the ship, she knew his birthplace, his name, his mother's name, his sweetheart's name, the anticipated date of the birth of their first child, and the four or five names which the family was still considering and debating. 

Jala had given her opinion, at length, as to the suitability of each name, and had brown-beaten poor Oswulf into agreeing that Yngvilde was by far the best name for a little girl; that Osric or Wulfric were too redolent of flattery... ass-kissy, as she put it....but that Ulfwulf might strike the right note of homage... 

Oswulf was relieved when she entered the second phase of her inquisition, in which she demanded the given name of every male person in the Stormcloak detachment, determined birthplace origin and home province for each, inquired as to their favored diet, and asked how it was they got their laundry done. (Gersta at the Four Shields, every Loredas.) 

All of the recruitment-camp cadre were from the south part of Eastmarch from the small mining communities which ring the hotsprings badlands. A place that is far, far inland. Jala and I shared a speaking glance. Only the new recruits were from Haafingar and its seacoast. 

Then Jala renewed her attack: Now that the "Nice, young, well-set-up Nord boys" were in the city, Jala said, there would be introductions that would have to be made. How many of them were already promised or married? Because the Widow Fulva had four daughters, and... 

By the time we arrived at the ship, Oswulf was looking very grateful that the nascent Yngvilde or Ulfwulf would spare him such a fate. 

Jala is tall, and strides like a racing-horse. She has silver-gilt hair, and a strikingly Altmeri bone structure for a Nord. That elegance of carriage, coupled with that raucous fishwife's tongue... I imagined her confronting our Sapiarch of Indoctrination in debate. Jala would prevail on sheer charismatic presence alone. Never mind that operatic voice and cleverness of wit.

"Thonnar!" Jala called, bounding up the rope stair. She waved him down to the orlop deck.

Oswulf tensed. 

"For pity's sake, he's just the purser," Jala said to Oswulf. 

"Hey Thonnar, you got more tomatoes down below? Whatever you got, I need. And a hundred fifty pounds of potatoes and five sacks of onions, also for our friends here." 

"You all right, Jala?" asked Thonnar, hand to his great-axe. 

"Much as anybody can be in this heat, " Jala complained, fanning herself. "Hey, you got any of that soft wheat I ordered?" 

"Yeah, it's down in the hold. It's a little damp." Thonnar frowned. "You'll want to look at it and tell me if it's still good enough. Sell it for feed elsewise." 

The hatch slammed shut behind them, Oswulf choosing not to argue with that great-axe. We were left to kick our heels. I ignored him in favor of staring up into the shatteringly blue sky. Oswulf joggled the awkwardly large book around. Eventually he set it down on the deck. 

Thonnar came back out with Jala. He waved at the mate; a hand signal I didn't catch. The mate looked puzzled. Thonnar gestured more emphatically. The mate struck the bell two times; and two; and two. That was expected. Then he struck it twice more. 

Hm? I glanced at the sky. Despite our rather busy morning, it wasn't anywhere near noon yet. Just past six bells, by my reckoning. Odd.

Crewmen came out and began to work, grousing and complaining until the mate started in on them. Thonnar put them to work moving crates and bags of items off the ship's deck and onto the dock.

Baskets of tomatoes and vegetables were part of the goods being set out onto the dock. Four other crewmen came out of the cabin and shipped oars. Three more headed down the dock for a small boat tied up along the shore. 

Oswulf kept eyeing the sails, nervously, so I followed his gaze, staring vacantly upwards. 

"Not a sailor, huh?" crooned Jala. "Well, never mind," she said to Oswulf. I could see her fingertips tapping nervously against the fabric of her dress. "Better tell Jorluf that there's still half a load of goods here on deck; if he wants fresh vegetables he'd better come and get them before tonight's tide." 

"Are we done?" I asked. 

Jala smiled. "Not unless someone wants to go down in the hold with me," she said. "Some damaged inventory down there. I could use some help moving bags." 

Oswulf followed her, but stopped short as the smell of the hold and the bilges hit him like a mallet.

"Stinks, don't it," Jala agreed. "How 'bout you, elf?" 

Stupid only gets you so far in life: "Corpulus wants me to get back to the kitchen right away," I said. 

"Yeah?" Jala said. "Best get to it, then," and pointed to the hatch. I gave in and followed her.

"He isn't dead, or you'd have told me," she said. "So... " she choked her voice to a whisper. "Where is he?"

"Holed up at the Skeever in one of the secret places, last I saw him. Not injured." I said. "He said to get you and the book on your way to Cyrodiil. That you had a plan. You knew what to do." I frowned. "He said that you should go immediately. That it's not safe."

"And what makes that man think I'm leaving this city without him?"

"Go!" I cried, desperate. "He wanted you out. Oblivion knows what chaos is coming... do you want to face mob justice?"

Jala was crying, silently. 

"I can't help you," I said. "I'm...not with the... I can't get you the assistance of the Thalmor at present. They've all taken sail. I'm sorry." 

Jala took a breath, then another; then steeled herself to it and wiped her face.

"He thinks they'll hang my head up next to his is what it is," said Jala. "Thinks if he runs one direction the mob'll follow him and not me. Likely they would. I have a big mouth. Folks might remember it." 

"What?" I said. 

"I had something to say about the execution," she said. "Should have kept shut."

"Do me a favor?" Jala asked. 

"If I can," I said. 

"Get him out of the city. Alive would be good." 

"I ah, can probably help with that," I said. "I need to get myself out as well. Probably going to be a bounty on ears soon, I expect." 

Jala grinned at me. "You are out of the city." 

"Well," I said. "Someone needs to let your man know what's going on." 

"He's my husband," she corrected me. "Not my man. In fact, now that I'm thinking on that..."

"I have another favor to ask."

And ask she did, holy sweet Mara. Jala does not mince words. 

Of course I immediately declined. And vehemently disclaimed any interest in such an endeavor.

Jala just sat and looked at me. Likely she knew better.

"You like him, don't you?" Jala waited for my lack of response.

I didn't give her one, though her eyes were penetrating. Five seconds of this and I desperately wanted to confess. 

What magic was this? 

I gritted my teeth. I have been trained in the arts of resisting interrogation; I could surely withstand five minutes with this Nord female. 

"Well, that's too bad," Jala said eventually--thank gods-- conceding. "He's had quite the little obsession. Even wanted to go out looking for you when you disappeared right before spring. If Faida hadn't told us where you were I think he'd have gone out against the Forsworn again by himself, even." She laughed. "He was working up the nerve to talk to you at the Skeever. Said he didn't want to mess it up, didn't want it to be just a quick thing. He's had some bad luck." 

Her lips curved up: "What? Do you think I don't know what goes on with him? He doesn't lie to me- do you think anyone can lie to me? Ever? I know everything there is to know. About him. He is my best friend on this earth."

"I am sorry," I said, responding to the grief that I could hear in her, just below the surface. 

She gestured upward to indicate the book. "All we both have," she said. "Ten years or so worth of it. His holdings in Cyrodiil; his entire inheritance from his family, our marriage lines; quitclaim deeds--- all of it. He gave it all to me. Like he intends... like he means to not go on." 

"Mariel's taking care of him," I said quickly. 

"Ah," Jala said, softly. "Much love to Mari Vinius. I will miss her and little Minni. And her boys."

"Well," Jala said. "We'd best be getting on with this. Thonnar's not leaving till I give the word and I suppose those boys want their tomatoes. May I?" 

She kissed her own palm, and then her thumb. Was this some ritual? 

"You did bring me a gift," she said. "Unasked for. Unwanted-- what I wanted was my husband here, did you hear that? I would rather be beggars together than--Well. A lone woman of property again, I suppose."

Jala hesitated. "Here is my gift in return." She cupped my face briefly in her palm, ran her thumb along my jaw. I shivered. "Just like that," she said. "Justiciars train for a good memory, yes?" 

She patted me. "Don't worry," she said, "I know how it is with you people. You won't have to touch him. Just show him what I did, and remember the words, won't you?"

"Ah-" I said. 

"Well, I don't want to hear about it," she said sweetly. "Don't get yourself in some kind of trouble with your people that you can't get yourself out of. Just-- get him out of the city and to safety, will you? By any means you think will work." 

Did I mention that our interrogators should study Jala? I do not know how she does what she does and I deeply regret never getting to know her at this stage of my career. 

I did ask a question, though, and it startled her. 

"What? No, of course not." She frowned. "Well. There are times when I have. Depends on what was going on. Really I'm too jealous of women. I am sorry about Erdi-- you're her friend, yes? You tell her so, now that I'm not going to have the chance. And there were some of the men I didn't like. Like that damned snake--" She sighed. "I assume I'll be gone a year or two, maybe more, getting this property all in order. Maybe forever. So--" She shrugged. "I'm not going to be dying on the vine, he knows that. Not that it's any of your business." 

I agreed that it was not any of my business. 

But it was very much becoming my business. Because by the close of our conversation I had agreed-- on my honor, no less-- to take care of him.

It felt like hours we were down there but by the sky it was only a few minutes before I emerged. 

I didn't have to feign dizziness; my head was spinning and my ears were burning. "Jala says it'll be a couple, three hours for the crew to get the goods sorted. Wanted me to make sure this stuff got up top. You got men to take it up?" 

Oswulf waved over one of the Stormcloak guards-- it was all Stormcloaks down here at the harbor-- for a brief discussion. 

By now there was a small mountain of crates and barrels of produce on the pier. Once Jala's goods were offloaded, one waved up at us. The mate on deck sounded a ram's horn, once. 

A large number of the ship's crew started to board in a hurry. 

"Hey--" Oswulf protested. 

I shrugged. "Forenoon shift change," I said. 

Another suspicious glance upwards from Oswulf, at the still-furled sails. 

"Are they trying to sail?" he demanded.

"Already missed slack tide," I said, too lazy to move. "This harbor's tricky." I shrugged. "You see the captain anywheres? Prob'ly still ashore." I scratched where my shirt itched me.

Oswulf frowned. 

"I'm from an island," I said, before I could lose all credibility as a dolt. 

"Ah." Oswulf visibly relaxed. 

While we waited, Jala and Thonnar sat on the bench and were going through her book and a ledger line by line: 

"Potato, red. 40 barrels at twenty septims plus nine for the barrel," Jala said, her voice leaden and minus its usual spriteliness. Perhaps she hates accounting as much as everyone else. 

"Got it," said Thonnar. 

"Potato, white, 5 barrels at thirty-five septims plus nine for 4 barrels, two for the last barrel," Jala said. 

"I don't think so," said Thonnar. He hesitated for a second, then said: "Fine. Agreed. Got it." 

"Leeks, 3 boxes at forty septims per box..." 

"Forty-two." 

"Forty-two, got it," said Jala. 

Jala's command of voice is masterful; she exuded droning boredom, with just enough of a grating edge that listening for long became unbearable. Cicadas ought to seek discipleship. Thonnar picked up on it and stopped interrupting her. I sat down on the deck and pulled my hood over my eyes. Oswulf dutifully hung over her shoulder observing as instructed. 

He lasted about half an hour, shifting from foot to foot in utter boredom. I think she and Thonnar were just reading numbers over and over. Surely a ship this size could not hold that much produce. 

It felt like we waited a long time for the carts to be brought. 

Inlanders like Oswulf would not know that on these smaller ships the purser is the quartermaster. Maybe Oswulf has no idea who's in charge of a ship in harbor, at all. As soon as Thonnar gave the word, this ship would sail. I'd neglected to point out to Oswulf the readied towboat, the capstan's being set up, the oars at the ready, or any of the dozen or so other signs of imminent departure. 

Forget Jala, I willed. Forget the book. 

Oswulf's commander arrived to take charge; not the shift lieutenant but a man sweltering under a huge bearskin cloak. He gave orders concerning the produce and goods on the deck, and told Oswulf to get it all up the hill and through the gates.

Oswulf hesitated, leaning over the rail. He pointed at Jala, still sitting with Thonnar and the book. 

Bear-cloak snapped at him and pointed at the loaded carts. 

I got up to disembark. Oswulf followed along without further incident. 

The crewman who held the rope ladder immediately turned to unfasten the moorings. 

No one took notice.

Oswulf and I and the crates and the barrels and the onions and the potatoes and tomatoes got a Stormcloak escort back up the road past the sea-gate, past the East Empire post, all the way up the main road into the city's main gate. 

We were about halfway up when I heard the harbor bell ringing wildly. I continued to trudge along. I saw four or five Haafingar guardsman trotting down the ramp. There was distant shouting and swearing. 

By which I concluded that Oswulf and the other landsmen Stormcloaks would shortly receive remedial training with regards to harbor duty.

I was delivered without further incident to the Winking Skeever's front door. 

I and my tomatoes were allowed entry. 

Oswulf and his compatriots were directed around to the serving window for cold beer.

Mariel was very happy to see me and to hear the news that Jala, her book, and the ship had safely departed for Cyrodiil. 

She was not happy about the promise of tomato-bread. 

She did concede that tomato-bread is less work than renovating from arson.

I washed off in the walled yard--pity I did not yet own a change of clothes-- before taking up an armload of items she had given me for Ahtar. Books. A game board. A hamper of food and five bottles of ale. Some wine. A flask of Colovian brandy. 

"Why are you smiling?" asked Mariel. 

I did not answer her. Jala's words had been for me alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian finds an excuse to go to Ahtar's hiding-place.


	12. Cyrelian-- Secret Respite: Solitude 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian invites himself into Ahtar's quarters and takes advantage of the circumstances.
> 
> Ahtar has words with him about that-- and decides to teach him better manners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: dub con.
> 
> This is one of the E for explicit chapters! Cyr/Ahtar.

The door between Ahtar's hiding-place and the pantry was not just unlocked; he had left it standing open. That sobered me a bit. Anyone could have stepped inside. I put my items down and bolted the floor-hatch shut. The door from this lavish little apartment to the street was latched closed but not locked. 

Frowning, I made it fast. 

There was goldware on the shelves; I set the table up and the sideboard, amusing myself by arranging food and drink to showcase its rough beauty, as if I were setting up for one of my aunt's receptions in Alinor. Some of the goldware I set in different corners of the room, so that its beauty would inform the space.

Eventually my unwilling host stopped pretending to sleep, stirred, and brushed past me on his way to the privy chamber. He smelled like mountainflower soap, fear-sweat, and old blood from his hair.

"Told you to go away," he said, on his return. 

I thought speaking to him in his own manner might reach him: "Mariel sent me. She's busy. Job's done and Jala's on her way to Cyrodiil with the book. Go eat." 

He made a noise of acknowledgment and moved to where the wine had been set out.

I stepped in front of him, and told him that he could have the ale along with his meal, and that if he ate well we would see about the wine. I told him that I had already spoken to Jala-- and to Mariel-- and that there would be no further argument. He was commanded to eat.

I told him that I was hungry. This was a lie. Also that I wasn't going to eat his food alone, which was true... and that I would stop talking to him and leave him in silence if he ate. That was also a lie. 

He told me he would eat if I would. 

I pretended a bite or two of apple and he gave in and let himself be led to table.

Ahtar snorted at the tableware and setting and asked if he had been mistaken for Queen Potema. 

To amuse him I got up and prowled through drawers, looking for indicia of ownership, since this was obviously a wealthy Thalmor's former nest. I found a few septims, and a bit of pretty green glass, but not much else. There were a few cooking items meant for the fireplace; those were marked with the Skeever's emblem. I put those away in the cupboards. The septims and bit of glass I put on the altar of Dibella in the sitting area. I kept checking on Ahtar. He managed some bread and cheese and most of a honey treat.

We went to the loft room, where it was cooler, and played a game. His mind was not on it; he lost. We played several games and he moved erratically at times, making careless mistakes. 

"You humor me," he said at length, conceding yet another match that he did not need to. 

"Jala told me to look after you," I said. Jala had had a great deal to say on the matter, but I did not share it. I moved to set the board up again. He woke a little more to his surroundings over time, and asked me questions about an Altmeri strategy book he said he had. 

There were parts of it, he said, that he struggled with.

There was a copy of it on the shelf and one in the basket Mariel'd given me, so we read it together.

I was surprised at how fluently he read Altmeris. I am ashamed to say I was surprised that he could comprehend Altmeris at all. 

I knew little of him, then.

The book is popular for its illustrations, not its text. Parts of it are written in an archaic creole dialect set out in poetic form. Not easy to read out unless you've heard it spoken. I voiced these parts to him as he followed along and echoed me aloud. His voice is very different in Altmeris, lighter and more nuanced, with none of the difficulties in prosody I had noted in other non-Altmer; his accent perfect middling Alinor. 

If you heard him speak, without looking at him, you would not know him for man rather than mer.

I went and got the board and when I came back he was sitting in a chair brooding again.

I coaxed him down to run through some of the scenarios we had been reading. 

There is-- I cannot imagine how I did not remark on this earlier but he does have more dramatic scars-- there is a House crest disfiguring his left arm, the lines of the brand blurred and old. A general of that House disgraced himself utterly in Hammerfell at the close of the last war. I believe he was executed for crimes against the public order. Moral Crimes. An embarrassment to the Dominion. I thought a mention of the mark would lead to a surpassingly awkward conversation and so I did not bring it up directly. Instead, I asked him how old he was. 

"Forty-one," he said, engrossed in the pieces he was moving. 

My heart stilled. 

The Great War is thirty years gone, and I had forgotten somehow the normal human span. I had taken him for in his eighties or nineties at least; for us that is a non-mage that is headed into middle life.

He looked up and smiled fleetingly, too quick to blanch the scars on his face white. "You?"

"Thirty-eigh... thirty-nine now." 

It was his turn to frown and silently consider.

It is the nature of things between man and mer; his life half done, mine... A sixth along? A tenth? Humans have their allotted threescore and ten; our span is far less certain. My father's death at barely more than two hundred was said to be from-- well, he was not a mage, it was held to be natural-- and I have forbears who may yet be alive. Fifteen years before my father was born, his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, great-great grandfather, and great-great-great grandfather were all yet living, five generations under the same roof. Those five generations spanned nearly four hundred and fifty years--the entirety of the third era. The eldest of them had fled the terror of the Numidium--and his father had served the Second Dominion.

Ahtar continued to dally with book and gameboard, plotting his way through move and countermove. I brought him spiced wine, which he laced liberally with brandy, and eventually he allowed he could sleep.

I settled down with the book. My thoughts were not on it, but I read the words over and over till they became meaningless, as if meditating on some devotional text. I have had practice.

Thirty years ago, Rihad, Tanith, Gilane. 

Hegathe did not ever fall to Arannelya, though it was beseiged for years. 

I knew relatively little of it-- I was not ten when it began, and my father had just been... he had just died. The war consumed my childhood; there was not one adult conversation I could recall that did not reference it. No one could deny that the war in Cyrodiil was heroic beyond all measure; it was unprecedented in all our history.

What happened in Hammerfall later was so shameful that our scholars do not discuss it. Although it gets called out from time to time: 'Don't suffer a victory like Arannelya's' is what gets said to small children to keep them taking too large a bite of taffy-treat. Lest it choke them. 

I considered the Redguard on the bed.

He slept poorly, thrashing and turning. He took off and put on his sleeping-robe more than once. It was stuffy in here; all of the windows shut. We were at street level and I did not dare open them. I could hear occasional disturbances and shouting.

I lay still for a long time, listening to the quick catch of his breath. At first I wondered; was he ill, and then I remembered: this is how it is for them, it all moves so quickly. My whole awareness centered on the man in the bed; his breath, his scent. I fancied I could feel the heat of his body in the too-close room.

I drifted a little bit myself, but the pain in my back and belly as always crept back as I slept, and I woke myself with distressful noises.

I moved further away so that I could heal myself and not disturb him. My skin was trembling with the reaction to the magicka; with fear, with desire, and with a disgust at myself that I can still feel in my viscera. I must have woken him.

He sat up, and called me over. "Use the bed," he said. "I'm going to walk a bit." My robes felt awful, stuck to me with dried sweat and grimy with the day's exertions. 

He saw me pulling on them. "Take all that off," he said, irritated.

He watched me as I undressed. I could not gauge his mood. I thought that it would happen then. 

I did not invite him near me. 

He did not come to me. He did what he said he was going to do-- paced the floor, looked out the windows from time to time, and stood reading.

When he did come back to bed, he curled up with his back to me and his face in his arms.

When he cried out I rolled over to him, and he quieted. I could tell that he was deeply asleep from the jerk and twitch of his muscles. His shoulders were like iron from the tension that still ran through his body and his eyes flickered in nightmare. I put my arm over him and we lay together like that for some time. His skin was damp and cool and it became overheated and slick between us, but I did not move. Eventually I slept as well. He woke with a cry and a start, grabbing my arm right over the bruises. I yelped at the pain and woke badly as well, threshing to get disentangled and struggling not to press my arousal against him. 

He gasped a couple of times. "It's all right," he said, despite being white around the mouth with some night-terror. "It's all right," and patted my arm. "You can touch me."

What did I cost myself, in that moment? 

I knew his words were merely meant to put my embarrassment at ease. Not to grant me license. Any misunderstanding on my part was wholly willful. Dibella had no role in this. No daedric curse caused it; I did not misunderstand basic Cyrodiilic; I was not confused; I was not asleep. I sustained myself for a long time on such lies. 

Now I have seen it all, having looked into the heart of the Eye: What we were. And what we have become-- what we have all fallen to. So I am no more virtuous than the others of my ilk, when the temptation is sufficient.

I could see, looking down at him, the state of his flesh. I was on fire, to see what I could make him do… pardon. This had naught to do with him. To see what I could make this Redguard’s body do. So I stroked my hand along the velvet of his belly into his undergarment and stroked him to his pleasure. His eyes are amber, the sclera darker than most humankind, almost like ours unaltered. The look in his at that moment-- the gods know our great sins. 

And I know mine.

He rolled away from me and tore the garment off, wiped himself down with it and threw it down. He hid his face from me and cried, for who knows how many losses: His city, the respect of his men, his friends hunting him like a dog, the captain who had been more than his colleague and superior, his home and property, his wife, for whom he feared so greatly. And, probably, for that last little bit of dignity that I had stripped from him-- I do not know, he will not tell me, or cannot; I am merely speculating. 

Not that I recognized it at the time. I had no thought of this. I remember feeling an impatient sort of pity. I was annoyed. I wanted to go elsewhere to seek my own pleasure, which I had not had of him; and I nearly did. 

Some impulse kept me near him.

Of course, we have spoken on this, he and I. 

He says that he has forgiven me. He says that he forgave me before he sat up and moved to sit within my arms; that it had simply been the shock of everything that day. Had I given him another moment to come to full alertness he would have yielded with great joy. We have had this conversation but a few words at a time, on dark nights when there is no chance that I can read his face or eyes. So I know. 

But, it is by-- I shall use his own familiar gods--Kyne's grace...and I suppose Dibella's... that I have anything at all of this man. I almost ruined it all before it began. I did not even know what wrong I had done. But I recognized the need and so I offered the embrace.

I am beyond grateful that he accepted my comfort.

After long moments he stirred, then rose to get some drink. 

I got up as well and started to lay aside my things, separating and untwisting my tunic and shirt with great care. Stalling my departure. 

Ahtar came to me and took me into an embrace.

"You have bad manners, elf," he murmured, almost a growl, and brushed his lips across the outside verge of my ear.

I was shaking and pushed at him; I needed his touch and could not bear it. When he ran his hand down my side and pressed the unseeable bruises, I cried out. 

He released me, nuzzling at my hair, and asked in that same low voice, did I want better instruction. 

Oh, I did.

We went to the carpet-- all beds are too small for us-- where he gave painstaking instruction. He is fussy.

But also wonderfully patient. We spent some time at this, until I was nearly crying from frustration.

It became too much for me.

He let me rub myself on him like the slut that I am, though I was far too tense to find release.

I wanted to taste all of him...

... but proved not very accomplished.

He brought himself to pleasure with my hands on him stroking belly and breast; it was wondrous-- I could feel it pulsing through my own self; I pressed my lips against him and cried out with him.

After, the grief took him again, and he curled up in my lap while I rubbed his shoulders and neck. I had no lack of patience, this time, though I was so aroused it hurt.

Despite what little we had done, we were one spirit thereafter; one flesh.

That has never changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian has forgotten to check on his ambitious colleague...


	13. Cyrelian--Acts of War: Solitude 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian reflects on the events of the previous day and takes a few hours to perform his job duties and to check on Thalmor Agent Gilgondoron, who has been busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nudity in this chapter but minimal smut; Cyr/Ahtar.
> 
> The eager-to-please Gilgondoron is based off the unnamed Thalmor Agent character from the Skyrim mod Inconsquential NPCs.
> 
> Alfgar-the-Dovhakiin and Marcus make their first appearance! We'll get back to them later.

Sometime late in the evening Mariel Vinius tapped on the door. "It's all over," she said. She spoke with Ahtar aside, her face grim. 

"We could hear the mob and smell the smoke," he told her. "No surprise. I expected to lose our--" He took a quick breath. "Just as well the whole building didn't burn. Hope Addvar and his kin made it out." 

Jorluf had warned him that Roggvir's execution would be casus belli, with retribution certain. Once the fires had started Mariel and Corpulus had ceded their door. The Winking Skeever is mostly stone, but there is thatch and shingle aplenty. 

"Jorluf demanded to come in and look for you," Mariel said to him. "Everyone agreed said you hadn't been seen and I let Sorex take a couple of them through the outbuildings and the brewing yard." 

"What about the Imperials?" I asked. 

"Jorluf had them line up and take their helmets off. Someone took their names down. They've been told to remain inside until negotiations for release are concluded." Mariel said. 

Or until Tullius gets here, I thought. Jorluf is hedging his bets-- an Imperial Legate's ransom against his own wergild for treason. 

Mariel moved us to one of the upstairs rooms which had already been searched and cleared. Jorluf had wanted it reserved for some commander; he didn't say which. It was pretty in the spare Nordic style but barren of personal touches; this room had been no one's home. 

"Out of sight is better," Mariel said, and told me that I was not to go back to my duties in the common rooms till the following day. 

I was all nerves. 

Ahtar and I sat and talked until it was full morning.

Mostly talked. 

I found myself terrible at bedding; nothing worked to finish me and we gave up. I was getting tired and sore. I should mention; this was caresses only; there is no way I could have forced my body to tolerate anything else and he... well. Ahtar of course is exquisitely attuned to such hesitancies. He broke off proceedings each time he felt my attention shift. Throughout our play I could not stop my thoughts from turning inward-- or turning nowhere at all-- I would go... still, I suppose. He would stop, and stroke my hair, or get up and walk around for a bit. Till I would come back to myself and reach for his touch again. 

He had no trouble, himself-- I could give him that, at least. 

I'd showed him what Jala had said, and touched his face similarly; he inhaled sharply and the amber of his eyes shone near-gold. When he bit at the heel of my hand I cried out, and he had to catch me when my knees gave. I assumed Jala's gift had been a gift to me, and I was severely annoyed with myself for wasting the gift that I had been given. 

(Months later, when I confessed my arrogance, Ahtar laughed and laughed.)

I woke alone in the grey pre-dawn. The bed was cool beside me, and the door leading into the Skeever was unlocked. I made my way to the bathing-rooms to stoke the boiler for the day and stepped in to bathe, and think.

I have said that I have been cursed by Dibella. I should correct any misapprehension. My mother is no priestess of Dibella. 

Yes, we had a shrine in the country house, and she taught us to make offering to it, but my mother is not one to stop at any altar giftless. While my father's house in the city is full of little cult icons and images of folk deities from Cyrodiil and Elsweyr and Valenwood-- he was an avid collector-- this was the only one my mother brought with her, citing some fond memory she wouldn't discuss. So when I say that we gave honey cakes and flowers to Dibella, we were... it was like we were small children being told to leave out a bowl of milk at night for the forest sprites. 

We were not worshipers. 

Dibella is not an Altmeri goddess, and in any event our allegiance must lie elsewhere.

So when I say I am cursed by Dibella-- it is really only a manner of speech. I mean that I fall too easily.

No gifts of any goddess are an unmixed curse or blessing.

Gift or curse, despite the condition of my unslaked flesh I felt better settled and less anxious. I needed to get to Winterhold, and get myself accepted at the College of Mages and placed on their roster before the Thalmor could bring me back under authority. My recent activities would not bear scrutiny. While I have been trained at evasion, every will gives way to Thalmor questioning eventually. I needed to stave off that day of reckoning. 

That day has not yet come.

Once I was clean and the shower area was mopped, and the towels were refreshed, I went to see what was going on in the rest of the Winking Skeever. The stalemate had continued post-surrender. The main eating-hall was still full of Imperial soldiers. I could see where they'd set out makeshift bedding in the private dining rooms.

"Where have you been? I needed to ask--" 

May Stuhn the god of ransom free me; it is Gilgondoron and his demands again. 

"What do you want?" I asked, wearily. 

"I recruited that asset for you and I don't know what to do with him!" Gilgondoron complained. 

"Outside, after Mariel lets me go for the day," I sighed.

Outside later I saw the night shift lining up for the second batch of tomato bread. I noted the need to make profuse apologies to Vana and Mariel. Still, that promise of tomato bread had bought us one detailed message to Jehanna Harbor and to Tullius, via Jala's ship. And doling out said tomato bread had bought Mariel and Corpulus a peaceable surrender. So it had been worth the trouble, in the end.

Gilgondoron told me that the greengrocer was missing and that everyone was talking about it. He said that the guardsmen were looking at him funny. One of them was talking about what they'd do to the Thalmor once the Stormcloaks had the city under control... 

"He said they'd spike elf heads up-- by the ears!" Gilgondoron was upset enough to talk of ears, which is uncouth. 

"Ow," I agreed, and rubbed my right ear in feigned sympathy, since his crudeness gave me leeway. It was a little tender. So was my neck. I fought down the rush of heat.

"What did you say to Jaree-Ra?" I asked.

"Um. I told Jaree-Ra to ... you know, do something that'll catch the Third Emissary's attention..?" 

Was that a nervous little giggle? Gilgondoron was nervous? I did not like where this was headed.

"Well, when the Empire fleet makes it in, there's no way that the Stormcloaks can hold Solitude, unless they want a long siege," Gilgondoron said. "There's not even enough of them to man the walls and the harbor defenses. They'll have to surrender." 

"I suppose," I said. "But.."

"So I told Jaree- Ra to do something about that," he interrupted, anxiously. "The Imperial fleet, I mean." Gilgondoron peered at me closely, trying to discern if he had been successful yet at currying favor. 

He had not.

Gilgondoron continued: "Jaree-Ra had some adventurer and..."

"...uhhh..."

...his friend... that so-called relic collector fellow--" My newly sensitized ears didn't miss that ellipsis; nor the corresponding disdain on the word "friend." My frown deepened.

Gilgondoron continued: "They put out the Solitude Lighthouse."

"What?!" I yelped. "Are you insane?!" 

I took a breath, then another, and reconsidered my approach. Gilgondoron was looking hurt. 

"I mean, how do you even know these adventurers of Jaree-Ra's even exist, or did anything at all?" I said. "It's awfully convenient that Jaree-Ra could say this task has been accomplished without himself having to do it."

"Oh, it's done," said Gilgondoron, with satisfaction. "Jaree-Ra says he spoke to them afterwards."

"And the Imperial Fleet was supposed to make it in last night," Gilgondoron continued. "Still not in. They're saying on the docks that the lighthouse keeper's dead and the fire was put out. Jorluf's got some men up there now." 

I cursed. 

"The Stormcloaks are happy but Jorluf isn't," said Gilgondoron. 

"Jorluf is doubtless counting the hours until he can hand this city over to Ulfric or Tullius, and you're just turned over his glass," I said. My head hurt. My sides hurt. My gut hurt. I was revulsed. Oblivion take Gilgondoron. "So obviously you've kept your asset busy." I rubbed my face. "What's your problem now?" I asked. "He need to get paid?" 

Gods know that would be an exercise in ingenuity. Current accounting: four septims and a piece of green glass.

"That's just it!," cried Gilgondoron. "He hasn't asked for payment. He's asking what he should do next!" 

"Ah." I said. "Well, in the spirit of continuing to assist the ear-spikers..." 

Gilgondoron hissed: "That's our mission!" 

"That's...that's the First Emissary's mission," I said. Slowly. Patiently. "Just like MY mission is to get to Winterhold without further ado." I thought this idea could use a little reinforcement. "Just like your mission is to do what now?" 

"Follow the First Emissary's orders!" he insisted.

Nnngh. I did not scream. Not quite.

"Fine," I said, after a few moments. "If you're that bored with rooting out Talos-worshippers and filing reports, go have Jaree-Ra go take care of those bandit pirates we couldn't seem to find, up on the northwest Haafingar coast." 

Maybe the pirates would take care of Jaree-Ra and his penchant for overachievement. Maybe Gilgondoron would tag along and the pirates would take care of him too. 

One can only hope.

I walked along the walls for a bit, trying to calm myself. 

An open and obvious agent of the Aldmeri Dominion had now committed an act of war against the Third Empire. 

And, gods help me, he was going to say that I was the one who gave him the order to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian meets up with Ahtar and goes to see about another friend who might need rescue.


	14. Cyrelian-- No Clear View:  Solitude 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian attempts to convince Acting-Captain Jorluf of the rebellious Haafingar Guard that it is time to negotiate with Falk Firebeard, and vice versa. At the Blue Palace, he convinces Erdi to come along with him. Cyrelian and Ahtar and Erdi hide out in the abandoned Thalmor Headquarters in Castle Dour, trying to determine what to do next. Cyrelian becomes a distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erdi's first appearance. As usual she nearly steals the show.

The stairwells up the outside of Castle Dour were thinly manned, and the guards gave me free passage after they ensured I was unarmed. 

I could see the Imperial ships, a full convoy with escort, far off the Dawnstar coast, patrolling eastward. Perhaps looking for their lost brethren. Did they know what transpired here? If they did, they could be at the gates within a day. Jorluf and his thirty-some men and the small detachment of Stormcloaks would be short work, once the battlemages and battering rams got to work. 

As an incidental matter I saw that the door to the Thalmor Headquarters had been left unguarded. The Imperials were all inside the Winking Skeever or the Blue Palace. Jorluf did not have men to spare to guard an empty building. 

I know where Ambassador Orondil keeps his spare key.

I dawdled, feeding the pigeons bits of tomato-bread. 

Despite healing myself again that morning, I couldn't bring myself to swallow so much as a crumb, though it smelled rich and appetizing. I licked the oil from my fingers, praying that I would keep that down, at least. I don't know why I didn't search out Lorion. I told myself that it was just my high temperament, that my nerves couldn't stand this tension. 

Once I was satisfied that no untoward eyes remained upon me, I went looking to find the several hiding-places we had discussed. Castle Dour has many towers and courtyards and outdoor storage areas up on its battlments. Thurindir favored a walled courtyard behind the Thalmor Headquarters-- not strictly ours, but none of the Imperials go there. Thurindir is fond of his illegal throwing-axes, and not fond of human-kind.

Ahtar was up there, crouched behind some empty barrels and the straw bales we use to make targets. 

"Couldn't find it," he said, by way of greeting. He sat back on the straw bales whilst I poked around the stones and mortar. Eventually my hand brushed over a tingle of magicka-- Orondil had disguised the spot to mundane sight and touch-- and the key to the Thalmor Headquarters fell into my palm.

I went atop, but alas, our soft-hearted Orondil had set all of our messenger-birds loose.

Ahtar and I knew what the penalty for getting caught by Jorluf's men would be: Jorluf's Stormcloak-allied guardsmen might let me go by, but not in Ahtar's company. Jorluf had warned him not to serve as Roggvir's executioner. 

If they found him they would take his head in return.

There was some disagreement as to what I should do next.

But about one thing we will never have disagreement.

We were hidden in the shadows. I stole a few precious seconds. 

Ahtar would not stay in the Thalmor Headquarters. 

I locked its door and took the key with me when I left. As the highest ranking member of the Thalmor Embassy remaining in Solitude, it would be my responsibility to ensure that the citizens are safeguarded from, what was the phrase? 

Daedra or some shit.

I needed to get to the Blue Palace again, for both Ahtar's purposes and my own. 

I ran back to the Skeever and put on Taarie's velvet robes which Vana had hung up for me in the baking-room. Warmed velvet and marten-fur should be pleasant in this northern clime, but not a bare week before harvest, in the noontime late summer sun. 

I was burning with thirst besides. I could drink little. I rinsed my mouth with the cool well-water.

I thought that there would be a lull in the early afternoon between patrols but evidently not. There was not an explicit curfew, but given the guard presence few citizens were on the streets.

We knew Jorluf had at least thirty men, but I counted twenty-two of that number. Too many out and about if he had only thirty and he were fully manning a night shift. Some looked uncertain of both dress and demeanor, gawking about at the city. He'd found new recruits.

Jorluf himself was standing watch within line of sight of the gate of the Blue Palace-- Ahtar's description was accurate enough-- and I stopped for a moment to inquire as to whether visitors would be permitted. 

We spoke for a few minutes, the usual sort of general chat-chit one must endure before business, even in blunt dealings with a gruff Nord. Commonplace topics of little dispute-- the weather, the coming harvest, the prospect of ships arriving in harbor. Acting-Captain Jorluf is not a happy man.

I apologized profusely for making him less happy.

Oddly enough, Acting-Captain Jorluf not only allowed me to go to the Blue Palace, he walked me up there and handed me over to the door guard personally. Perhaps he feared I might go astray.

I do not seem to be making anyone happy this morning. 

My request for funds is no longer pending. Denied in light of the current crisis. A letter of recommendation might be forthcoming. Perhaps. After resolution of the current crisis. 

After some argument, the good Steward Firebeard acknowledged that it was probably time to commence negotiations with Acting-Captain Jorluf. If the Imperial Navy were indeed conducting salvage operations, and looking for Ulfric's boats, it could be a day or three before they made it back to Solitude Harbor. It was anyone's guess as to whether Ulfric would get there first. 

Elisif sat quietly, dispirited. 

I did not count anywhere near thirty loyalist guards in the Blue Palace. I counted seven. They looked exhausted. I did not happen to see Captain Aldis.

My task accomplished, I set about Ahtar's. 

This is Erdi. 

Erdi is luminous. Have I mentioned Erdi previously? 

Erdi had been a court favorite. By the time I'd met her, she had fallen from favor-- one of the many casualties of the late High King Torygg's reign. She'd been demoted to palace maid, and served under a head housekeeper who hated her. 

Erdi has no friends left in the Blue Palace.

We've spoken on previous occasions. 

It had been very tempting to spirit her away with me.

I do own a castle-type...er...fortification, even if the estate is currently adjudicated to be in abeyance...there is an appeal pending...but it has been sitting vacant in the custody of trustees for three decades. 

Hardly a place to run off to with a pretty lady. 

But, as I said, we had been talking. Somewhat.

This was not really the sort of private conversation that I had envisioned, but-- 

As Erdi had been on the stairway of the Great Hall-- and Falk Firebeard when angered is not a soft-spoken man-- there was no need to review current circumstances.

Erdi told me that there would be no help forthcoming for Ahtar from the Blue Palace. She'd already tried. Aldis knew Ahtar was somewhere in the city, being hunted. Aldis did not care. 

Erdi wanted to leave.

I questioned this. It would be a hard road. 

High King Istlod had required all of the palace staff to be part of its line of defense, so Erdi had undergone recruit training. She still practiced at the archery butts every Sundas. She had her own dagger. 

Erdi could handle herself, or so she said.

Erdi disavowed any faith in Jarl Elisif, Captain Aldis, or the Jarl's palace guard. Nor did she believe Tullius would return in time, since the court chatter was that he had taken his troops all the way to the Forsworn encampments at the High Rock border, after some killings that had occurred along the road west of Dragon Bridge. 

I sighed. "Who got killed?" I asked, already knowing the answer. 

"Some of your people up from the Embassy," she said. "They're saying Tullius didn't want it be said it was his doing, so he went out to make an example of..." 

I cut her off: "Is Dragon Bridge still under control by the Empire?" 

"Probably," she said. "They closed the gates and Penitus Oculatus is sitting there and refusing to come out. They've stopped responding to messages. Aldis is very angry." 

"Well, the Empire's none too happy with Captain Aldis," I said. "How many days is Tullius out?" 

My belief, which seemed to be shared in common, was that word probably had gotten to Tullius by now, but it remained to be seen how fast he could inspire his troops to move. And no one seemed to know where Ulfric was, other than chatter that he was moving through the swamps of Hjaalmarch.

Erdi is absolutely to be trusted. Have I made that clear? 

Erdi'd told me previously that Ahtar had been an officer of distinction before they'd met, but his patron had died and someone else-- I didn't catch this-- had died and he no longer had any real prospect of a career. He'd followed Aldis, sold his commission in the Imperial Legion and joined the Solitude City guard. 

He and Aldis had been close, Erdi said. 

By no means was this the whole of the tale. It will suffice.

Erdi and I walked out of the Blue Palace and were waved past the guards by Acting-Captain Jorluf, whom I notified of the upcoming parley with Steward Firebeard. Jorluf did not look less unhappy. 

Erdi and I went to the Skeever so that I could change out of the vermin-and-velveteen and have a word with Mariel Vinius. 

Mariel wished us luck. She unlatched a gate, directing us to the rooftop gangway that leads to the Emperor's Tower. 

There is more I should have said. 

It was the last time I saw Mariel. 

But I couldn't have known.

Ahtar was in the shadows between the Emperor's Tower and the Thalmor Headquarters. He could see us coming up, and caught up to us easily. 

"Why are you wearing that?" asked Erdi. Indicating the uniform of the Third Empire. 

"Wanted something that would help shed arrowstrike and cover my head," he said. "Still entitled to it." As a veteran, he meant.

Evidently he had stolen it from the Castle Dour garrison. Or--was it his? It looked old but well-kept. 

Erdi frowned at him. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I went to look over the south wall towards Dragon Bridge," said Ahtar. "It's fully invested and they're clearing the trees between the road and the wall." Siege-workers, preparing.

"Stormcloaks?" asked Erdi. 

"Not Ulfric's personally. Dawnstar maybe? I didn't recognize the banners. Ulfric hasn't had armies long enough for me to learn 'em. A couple of Jorluf's men down there with them. Didn't want to risk it." 

"What about the harbor gate or the marsh gate?" I asked.

"I heard Bolgeir talking," said Erdi. "If the palace guards had thought the marsh gate were safe they would have brought Elisif out through there and gotten her out to High Rock by now. They think the Stormcloaks might be coming via longboats through the marsh." 

"Confirmed?" asked Ahtar. 

Erdi shrugged. 

"The Blue Palace can't possibly have scouts down there," I said. "It was all I could do to get myself back up from the docks and I had a Stormcloak escort the whole way. Jorluf has the gates locked up."

"If they're coming that way, they won't be there for long," said Ahtar. "Imperial Navy's been patrolling out of Turranus, usually between Jehanna and Farrun. They were supposed to be up at the border to support Tullius. My best guess is they're on their way back in a hurry, now."

"Which ships?" I asked, feeling a bit ill. 

"Icerunner," he said. "That's--ah--a penal ship, they use it for prisoners. Some troop transport and cargo though. Soldiers don't like it much. Brinehammer-- that's a big troop ship. " 

"Word is someone put out the Solitude lighthouse," I said. "Two ships wrecked-- one sounds like your Icerunner. Damage to some others. I saw what looked like the fleet this morning headed eastward. Impossible to say if the Stormcloaks had ships of their own out that way. Didn't you see it?"

Ahtar shook his head, and gestured at the view he could enjoy, screened from the guardsmen's sight by the battlements. "I haven't been able to get over to the sea wall to get a look," he said. "Too many patrols. Can't get a clear view." 

Erdi had been looking around, nervously. "Let's go inside," she suggested.

"If Tullius is still in Haafingar, then where is he?" I asked, once we were safely inside the Thalmor Headquarters. 

"Wouldn't we all like to know," said Ahtar. "If he went up into the Druadach hills as planned it could be awhile before he gets back out-- those roads are no joke even in summer. And you don't leave men behind for the Forsworn." 

"Ulfric had just left Dawnstar headed eastward when all this happened," said Erdi. "Sybille said that his people had been moving along the beach towards Winterhold." Jarl Skald had declared for Ulfric; and Jarl Korir of Winterhold was Skald's daughter's husband. If Winterhold's banner had not changed yet, it would presently. Eastmarch, the Rift, the Pale, Falkreath and now Winterhold were under the blue banner; Morthal, that was an open question. It wasn't very defensible. We'd heard the rumors that the Stormcloaks were there, too.

"Be only a couple days to turn around and get here along the beach from Dawnstar. Couple more from Winterhold, assuming it's well in hand." said Ahtar. "If it's been as dry out in the Pale as it has been here, there wouldn't be any mud. Dry flat ground." 

Fifteen to thirty miles a day, I reckoned, assuming Ulfric had good discipline and not too much in the way of carts. "This close to harvest, though?" I asked. 

Ahtar grunted. "Could be a quick fight," he said. He sounded dubious. 

I shared that sentiment with him and Acting-Captain Jorluf. Solitude itself would be a swift and uncontested victory for Ulfric's Stormcloaks and the Stormcloak-aligned Haafingar guard. Most of the remaining legionaries and loyalists had already given parole; the rest were safely penned up at the Blue Palace guarding Jarl Elisif. But Tullius was unlikely to give up Solitude to Ulfric and go home. He would face court-martial. 

We all knew thatTullius had enough ships and men to lay a lengthy siege, even through the winter. 

I wondered what the situation was at Dragon Bridge.

"The people in the palace were talking about terms of surrender," said Erdi. 

"So are the most of the officers at the Skeever," I said. "Essentially they already have. They don't view this as a winnable battle and--it's not their home. They just want to get out of the city and go back to their home legions. Most of them don't even belong to Tullius, they're just temporary-duty assigned to the Fifteenth. So far they haven't been too impressed."

"What sort of terms of surrender does Ulfric consider?" I asked. 

Ahtar grimaced: "Depends," he said, uncomfortably. 

"The people in the marketplace are scared but Jorluf is letting business go on as usual. Under watch of course," I said. "Do we think that Ulfric would..." 

"Markarth," was all that Ahtar said, painfully.

Erdi did not understand.

We went downstairs to Ambassdor Orondil's day room. 

"They're best off surrendering to one of the ranking Stormcloak officers now," said Ahtar. "Get his word of honor as to terms. Someone who Ulfric can't ignore later." 

He sighed. "What comes next, though..." 

"Has this war been marked by particular atrocity?" I asked, curious. 

"Not yet," Ahtar said. "And is the Jarl of Windhelm not known for his adherence to--" I said. 

"No." Ahtar cut me off. "Men wouldn't follow Ulfric if he didn't keep his word. It's just..." He pushed up to his feet and began to prowl the room.

Erdi got him to settle back down with the promise of food and drink. 

"I served under Ulfric at Markarth," Ahtar admitted. "Kind of difficult to get it out of mind. Ulfric was willing to make a deal at first, but then something happened and it all went wrong. Then he refused to accept any terms. Butchery. Awful." 

Erdi: "I didn't know you were even part of that militia, I thought you were always--" her voice was rising. 

"Stormcloaks aren't daedra, Erdi," Ahtar said wearily. "They're men. Likely even some of them are men and women I know." He patted her arm. 

Erdi poured for him, her manners as pretty as if she had been serving Jarl Elisif the Ambassador's best white wine. I tasted it. It was going off. 

"Not that it matters," he said, "I was just as bad as any of the rest. Worse." 

"Did Markarth surrender?," I asked. "Or was it a general sack?" 

"Not so simple," said Ahtar. He shook his head. "Markarth was a mess."

"What is Ulfric likely to do with soldiers who have nothing to do with Skyrim? The legionaries at the Skeever. Would he take a ransom for them if they gave no trouble?" I asked. 

"He might," Ahtar said. "I tell you what he wouldn’t want-- he wouldn’t want the Emperor to decide to send more support for Tullius. A legion or three up Helgen road...probably take a week or so to clear the rubble, but after that..." He drank. "That'd fuck him up pretty good," he said. 

"The Empire's not going to send further troops in," said Erdi. "I hear those arguments every day." She sniffed. "I fail to see why not. Things are getting very bad." 

"For the most part the Empire's legions are massed on its southwest coast, together with the bulk of its navy," I said. 

"To what purpose is that?" said Erdi. And: "Oh."

"The Aldmeri Dominion is unlikely to blink first," I said.

"What about the Thalmor?" Erdi asked. "Do you think the Stormcloaks will be willing to let them go?" 

"Depends on how much Ulfric wants to face Dominion soldiers and battle mages," I said. "A few of us die to insurgents or bandits here; that's in the nature of our peacekeeping duty here; it's acceptable attrition. A general slaughter of us by the Stormcloaks would provoke a different response. Particularly if it's the Ambassador, or the First Emissary...or... well, myself on that block." 

"Ahtar?" Erdi said. "Are you all right?" 

"No. I'm..." He was sitting very still. Sweating. 

I had already forgotten. 

Roggvir. Had been colleague and friend. Mariel Vinius had told me.

"I'm sorry, I spoke carelessly," I said, going to him. 

There was nothing I could do but return to the conversation: "I think the city guard here might be inclined to kill Thalmor, but the Stormcloak officers might think better of it," I said. "Particularly since our people are quite willing to pay ransom." 

"Really?" said Erdi. 

"You Nords have these odd ideas about the virtues of personal valor," I said. "A successful negotiation is by far the least costly path to victory-- and here it's regarded in contempt. A battlefield rout due to arrant stupidity-- well, that Nords sing songs about. Proud songs." I shook my head. 

Madness. 

"Money is unimportant compared to lives," I said. "My people have money. Could support Ulfric's little war effort for years." Assuming the Thalmor hadn't bankrolled the entire endeavor from its inception. I'd seen Elenwen's budget, and it certainly wasn't coming out of that. But I had my suspicions. 

"If you're thinking about turning yourself in to them, better do it now," said Ahtar. "Ulfric ain't gonna ransom back Thalmor." 

"No?" I said. "It would be very much tit for tat. We allowed his people to ransom him, so to speak--In any event, I want you two to turn yourselves in for ransom. I will go on to Winterhold. I don't want to be ransomed back to Alinor," I said. 

"Why not?" asked Ahtar. 

"My own reasons," I said. 

"And what reasons would that be?" Erdi's voice was sharp. 

"Ehh, political reasons ... you know, Thalmor... have these cultural..." I deflected. 

Now she was suspicious, frowning-- I was going to have to go for cheap sympathy. Hm. Well, Ahtar had said Erdi could be trusted. 

So I tugged at Ahtar's hand to encourage him to haul me up into his lap.

My fingertips grazed Ahtar's neck, just at the verge of softness where the roughness of beard-stubble ends. I sighed content. 

"I don't want to end up like Justiciar Lovritien," I said. 

"Whatever happened to him?" asked Erdi. "One day he was the Second Emissary; the next he was gone and nobody would talk about him, and I always wondered..." 

"Don't." I said, with finality.

"Bad?" questioned Ahtar. He shifted his angle of approach to avoid striking me with the cheekpiece of his helmet. He'd had some practice at this. 

"Preserved," I said, a moment later, somewhat muffled. "Object lesson. End of a hallway second floor Diamond-Tenets tower in Lillandril. Have to walk by it and get the lecture before you get the oath and the robes and a berth on the ship. It was pretty freshly done, maybe a month or so before I left? Sickening." 

"What?!" Erdi sounded shocked. 

"Stasis spell," I said. "Generally they bring him up to consciousness for a half- second or so during the lesson. Once seen, not easily forgot." 

Ahtar spaced his words out between little nips. "I." he said emphatically. "Hate."

I shivered all over. 

"Elves."

"Mmmhm." I had no capacity to disagree. 

Thought had fled.

"Hey!" We looked up at Erdi. What had she been saying? 

"If you two could please get your minds back to this discussion--" 

"No," I said, definitively. 

"We could be dead in the next few hours," said Ahtar, reasonably. "Why don't you go downstairs, Erdi, and see if there's anything we could make use of and--" 

"I am not going downstairs!" Erdi scowled at us. "You two go downstairs."

Whatever else it was Erdi said---I was not listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: In the middle of some private time together, Cyrelian tells Ahtar (more of) the truth.


	15. Cyrelian--Enfiladed Fire: Solitude 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian and Ahtar steal away for a couple of hours of private time. Cyr has an attack of nerves, but he manages to get through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More NSFW-for-certain. Cyr/Ahtar.
> 
> This time Cyrelian is much better-behaved.

Erdi made us leave. 

She said we were annoying her. 

I didn't fail to remark her little smirk.

It is embarrassing. I almost failed to get Ahtar all the way downstairs.

A nice little sitting chamber for guests is just downstairs, with soft-pelted rugs and furnishings that can readily be moved, and a stout door that locks. 

My hands were under his cuirass-bases and he had the tunic off me before we negotiated the stairwell…

... but I am braver in the thought than in the deed.

Ahtar sat with me and stroked his fingertips along my back, talking quietly. 

Then he went foraging. 

"Ah," he said. "Posca." The imperial word for sek. We keep the syrup on hand-- the Ambassador likes to drink it even in the winter-- though here it is mead-vinegar rather than wine, sweetened with more honey and mountainflower, rather than our moonsugar-and-mint. He and I drank it, diluted half-strength-- it went down easier than plain water. I savored two mugs of it, stalling. 

He couldn't know. Some of my memories of this place, they are upsetting. 

Ahtar began to touch me again, his palm paying no heed to the sweat of my back. I do not know where it came from, this affection-- it is not a grace I deserved.

There was a conversation I needed to be having: I have to leave you. Once you are safely removed from this city, I have to leave you. I cannot afford this risk. This distraction. I cannot abide you with me. 

I could not speak these words.

It was easier to allow myself to become wholly entranced. It is his touch that is balm, his touch and the rough timbre of his voice.

He eased me to the floor.

I grunted when he contacted my belly-- his weight there was intolerable-- and he pulled up my hips, choosing to settle his weight between my thighs. 

This was painful too, but after so many days the bruises-- No. These had not begun as superficial injuries but as great purple-black masses four times the size of my hand. They had not removed tassets or cuisses. I-- I will not dwell on this. 

After so many days, it was an endurable pain-- being leaned upon was a soothing ache, like pressing at an unbearably sore tooth. It was getting better. I told myself it was all getting better. 

I rolled my hips up and groaned to encourage him. Even through three layers of garment I could feel him leap.

He kissed along my face and neck and chest as we lay there, now moving gently. My eyes settled closed. My skin sparked pleasure everywhere he touched. It was difficult to distinguish his body from mine; myself from the rug; the rug from the floor. I could feel the very earth breathing-- it would have been a mystical experience, I think-- but for my occasional uncouth noises. I fancied I could hear the vaulted stonework echoing back my yips and gasps. 

I could feel Ahtar laughing, chest and belly rippling with silent joy. 

I grew quieter, and drifted, hazy…

"Wake up a little," Ahtar murmured. 

I started, and opened my eyes. I don't know what I was dreaming of. 

Whatever it was, it could not be better than this.

He rubbed my ear between rough thumb and forefinger, with the same languorous rhythm of his hips, advertising what he could do if I let him in. 

Now I was crying out, and the stonework echoed in truth.

He watched me closely, and bit me at the right moment, but it was not enough. After a few moments I subsided, sinking back downward. I patted his shoulder.

Ahtar made a disgruntled noise and got off of me. 

"Bet those pants don't feel too good," he said, grinning at the sight. They strained obscenely and were damp where he'd been rubbing.

"You have no idea," I sighed. 

I forgave him when he helped me tug open the laces. My hands were shaking.

I wriggled free of the sweaty confines and began to sit up. 

Ahtar reached to pull aside my undergarment and when I hesitated, let it be. 

He helped pull me up by my arms and lent his shoulder to the process when I swayed, dizzy. I could smell it. Mer armor-sweat.

Ahtar rubbed along my chest and belly; cupped me through the cloth. 

I was too constrained. I couldn't reach him or get at him or get to my feet-- I didn't like this. 

His fingers went into the waistband, which was suddenly intolerable.

I struggled free, leaving the abused garment behind, and stood up. 

He stood likewise, puzzled. 

"Take those off," I snapped.

If this were going to work between the two of us, at all, I would have to take charge of it. 

Ahtar did not complain.

I pulled him hard into the kiss, neck and shoulders tensed. Our teeth cracked against each other and he grunted, pulling back a little. It was a contest for a few seconds, a little war between us; then he yielded the advantage so sweetly that I cried out again, though this time it was muffled, soft and low.

His hands, which had been so sure, fluttered uncertain, then skimmed down my sides. 

"No!" I said, when he reached to take me in hand. 

"Don't-- don't touch me."

"Move your hands away," I directed.

And he was compliant--

\-- watching me work us for awhile.

But then he started licking my neck, his tongue probing up under my ear. I couldn't stop shivering my ear against his lips. 

"Stop it!" I cried- "I can't--" 

"More", he said hoarsely, bucking his hips, thrusting into my slick hand, wet with fluids and sweat.

I suckled and worked his nipple; he pulled and stroked my ear, working himself furiously into my hand. 

I couldn't focus, and tugged my head loose, sinking down to work on him two-handed.

He grew quiet. I could feel his tension growing. His balls had drawn up. He was so tight and hard against his belly it was difficult for me to get my hands in to stroke him from the base. 

"Want your prick again," he gritted tautly, and I obliged immediately, pressing myself against the straining velvet.

I watched him, fascinated, as he took great gulping noiseless breaths. 

The movement of my hands was the only sound, now, in the room. 

I was on top of the arc of his pleasure now; I could feel it, the first quick little spurtlets along my hand. 

Could he really do this without crying out? I was nearly sobbing, myself.

When he broke, it was in absolute silence-- it was my breath that left in a plosive gasp.

I kissed him again, this time on the soft places of his neck, continuing to work him slowly, till he stopped me. 

He wrapped himself against me heedless of the mess. 

I didn't care.

I have no resistance to his kisses. They are moon-sugar and brandy. 

All of my skin is hungry for his.

We stood until the pleasure roiling throughout his body finally dissipated. 

He pulled away just far enough to allot himself speech. Beard-stubble and the edges of his lips brushed mine. 

"Let me," he coaxed. He wanted so badly to pleasure me.

I tried.

I jerked away; it was unpleasant-- almost like a jolt of pain. It had gone on far too long for me. 

He frowned, recognizing that he was responsible for my overstimulated state.

He patted me. "Try something else," he suggested

Hunkering down, Ahtar caught my expression and laughed. 

"Not going to be an easy job," he said, and paused to lick an errant droplet. I shuddered. "You wanna help me out?" Before I could respond he guided my hand to the back of his head. 

My fingers twisted into his braids, hard.

I must have yelled, because he looked up at me, quizzical, before steadying himself with a hand to my thigh. 

I pushed forward, experimenting-- would he really let me use him, thusly? It was slick and hot and beyond heavenly but the ache that was building rapidly was pain.

He went deep, to show off what he could do, and I sobbed, because it was too much-- I had to stop it.

We broke apart and I went aside a little, trying not to weep. 

Ahtar sat on the floor a little, and then got himself more to drink. 

"Wish there was ale," he grumbled, but I was just as happy for the sek. I could feel the healthfulness of it flooding into me as I drank. I prayed the damned beverage would sit well. For a miracle it did. 

After a little while we spoke, the private conversation which I'd wanted to have apart from Erdi, though not the words I had wanted to speak-- I am apparently too successful at distraction. I had distracted myself. My words stumbled and I stopped. 

"I am a fugitive," I admitted. "I am sorry." I turned the empty mug over in my hands. "I-- I gave you the impression that I have some control over this situation when I do not. The First Emissary will not be favorably inclined towards a junior officer for whom she has had to issue a writ." 

"Why suggest we turn ourselves in for ransom, then?" Ahtar asked. 

"Taking it as read that a Nord's word of honor means something to that Nord," I said, "it would be a better guarantee to get you home to Cyrodiil than an attempted flight." 

"No," he said. "Too easy for me to run into a dagger blade at night. Jorluf's men will still be about." 

And Erdi, of course, had no one to help her-- he wanted to help her re-establish herself outside of the city. He was sure that she could do well. A shopkeeper's assistant, perhaps? She could keep accounts. 

"Why Winterhold?" he asked. 

"I am not yet trained as a mage," I said, "and I have the potentia, so there is a ready excuse. Once I enroll there and am accepted, I must serve my time out there-- five or ten years or so." Not much time, really, but it would serve. "And there is a Thalmor advisor there, who will have no authority to detain me--" any such detainment could only come at the Archmage's direction. He is a Dunmer, and they do not love the Thalmor at all--"but he could relay messages for me, to Alinor." 

"That makes no sense." Ahtar frowned. 

"There is a minor factional struggle going on within the Thalmor," I said. Careful. Be very careful, this man is not stupid. "I don't know which side I'm likely to come out on, or which side I'll be volunteered to," I said. "I'd like to not be standing in the field of fire. It will be coming in from all directions." 

I was not certain if Elenwen would take me into custody as a material witness or charge me with a criminal offense. Or just make me disappear. Perhaps, if I were lucky, the dead Thalmor Justiciars and soldiers would be indeed be recorded as casualties of someone else's war. And the report that Penitus Oculatus had drafted-- in twenty years or so, who could identify its unfortunate subject? 

Taking refuge at the College of Winterhold would give me time to reach out to my mother, or to my trustees, or even to my aunt. Elodie might even support me, if it were politic for her to do so. 

"So what was all that bullshit about the Second Emissary?" he asked. "Is he really dead?" 

"I imagine so," I said. "No one's wasting a binding-stone on him. Otherwise it'd be pretty much a full-time expenditure of magicka for at least two mages to keep him in stasis like that. Alteration spell to stop the rot and an illusion-mechanic to simulate movement'd be a lot cheaper for the same effect." 

"You've... thought about this," Ahtar said. 

Oh, yes. I had. 

"What actually happened? Did all that have to do with things he did in Skyrim?" he asked. 

"Lovriten was a fool who wouldn't shut up until he got tagged as a dissident," I said. "What's done on frolic-- well, that's a frolic, it's your business-- they don't look into that too too closely, thank Auriel. But don't think you can come back and re-affirm your oaths and then advertise your new lifestyle." 

Ahtar's face was a study. "I mean, they tell you all this before you take the oath," I said. "It's no secret." Not that I could have failed to take the Thalmor oath, not after Elodie's sponsorship, not with the eyes of my trustees upon me-- but all that weighed less heavily than the history of my house. 

"Not much different than the cursus honorum, then," he said. "Difference in degree rather than in kind." Ahtar shook his head. "Hell of a difference of degree, though. They only flay reputations in Cyrodiil. Mostly." He brooded. "My older brother got attainted for uh... I guess you'd say moral crimes. Bad. Nasty enough that I don't want to put the family through it. Not again. Not even to a lesser degree. Best I remain in Skyrim." 

We had drifted towards each other; his hands brushing my arms. We are of a height. I stepped up to him and rested my cheek against his. He always startles a bit, when I do this. 

"You could live with your wife again," I suggested. "Or like a monk." 

"Hahaha. Tried that," Ahtar said. "Tried the other thing too. Didn't work out so well." He nuzzled me. "I'm kind of a hound," he growled softly. "Always on the hunt." I shivered. "Sooo--" he breathed, lowering his head and biting gently at my neck. Soft enough that I could distinguish between the pressure of his lips and of his teeth. "Do you want to live like a monk?" 

I could just hear it, the plaintive note in his voice under all that teasing.

No need for a binding-stone; I was struck still. 

He knew. He kissed me again, his mouth cool now and fragrant with the honeyed drink. Once we started again, I couldn't stop. 

"Please," I said, all mastery fled. Oh, please. "Can we go to the floor again?"

He cupped my face and kissed along my cheekbone, delicate as a moth. He bit my chin and along my jaw. He nipped the lobe of my ear and began to march upwards toward its vertex. 

My hips lifted and I keened, writhing, trying to get Ahtar to cooperate. 

I didn't care what damage he caused me; I didn't care what pain it might be; I wanted more of him and the only way to get more was to get him in; I begged wordlessly, writhing against him. 

"Nope," Ahtar said, "Don't got what we need. Not gonna hurt you." And he offered his thigh, pressing it between mine, and went back to work. 

I cursed and clawed at him. 

He pushed up and looked at me for a long moment, his eyes in shadow. I was panting and no doubt drooling like a fool. His weight and heat were too much and I could not breathe and--

"Gods," he purred; and rolled us both to our sides.

"I've got you," he said, voice pitched so low I could barely hear. My ear-tip fluttered; I know he felt it, he rubbed his cheek against mine and kissed me. 

"I'm still here," he soothed. After a ragged breath or ten I settled. 

"You do it," he said, his thumb rubbing insistently. "Do it the way you like it." 

He didn’t say anything else thereafter, and did not try to work me, only turning his head now and again to press his lips against my hairline. I lay in the crook of his arm, leaning back against his chest when I needed that contact. I could feel his avid gaze against my skin.

When my crisis broke it was absolute, and drew me straight down to Oblivion.

My vision stayed black for so long that Ahtar patted me; and when I failed to respond he slid out from behind me and left me on the rug. 

I heard him moving about, opening drawers and cabinets. He set down a bowl of water and rags. 

“Here,” he said, unnecessarily tossing one on my chest, and nudged me in the side. “Get cleaned up.” 

“Go away.” My eyes stayed closed. 

Is there any treasure so rare as blissful slumber? Gods. I could sleep forever. My limbs took a tally-vote and advised me that I was never going to move again. I could muster no arguments. Ahtar finished washing himself... and kept prodding my ribs with his toes. 

Some years-- moments-- later I relented, and got up to deal with the stickiness. Fur rugs are wondrous against the skin for the commencement of such business but an evil nuisance thereafter, even if all the mess is on one's belly. Lynx undercoat is, without a doubt, still stuck to my skin somewhere. I was finding it for days.

Ahtar went to dump the rags and the rest of the water down the privy and came back to sit with me. 

"That was fun," he said. "Always like that for you?" 

"Gods no," I said. Thankfully not. My ears were still ringing a little. Hopefully not because I had yelled. 

"Mmmmhm.. shame," he purred, and yawned hugely. "Fun to watch. What--" he paused. "What happened to Sef Whitehair?" 

"Nothing," I said. Well, not nothing, I'm certain it had been a misery, but the Thalmor hadn't done anything to him. Not directly. "Put him ashore on Wayrest at his request, I think," I said. "He was under a householder's oath. They couldn't touch him. I told you Lovriten was being stupid." 

"Ah. Knew him a little bit. Just enough to speak to him." Ahtar yawned again. 

"You want to sleep too?" I asked hopefully. 

"Nah. Should get up," Ahtar said. "See what can be done. Get out of here."

"What are we going to do?" I asked. About this. 

"We'll think of something," Ahtar said. He patted my flank. "Thought of going straight to Ulfric but not with you along," he said. "Winterhold's all right. I heard they acclaimed Korir as jarl. He can be reasoned with." 

"You know him too?" I asked. 

"Oh yeah. Served with him. Cousin or something to Ulfric. Married a jarl's daughter."

Ahtar pulled me to him as we were going up the stairs. 

"Remember-- don't be stupid," he whispered.

I wholeheartedly agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian, Ahtar, and Erdi devise a means to escape the city... which becomes more complicated when Cyrelian takes pity on inept Thalmor Agent Gilgondoron.


	16. Cyrelian-- A Poor Ruse: Solitude 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahtar, Erdi, and Cyrelian rifle through the Thalmor Headquarters and steal Ambassador Orondil's clothing to disguise Ahtar. Cyrelian tells a reluctant Erdi to be her own gallant hero. Gilgondoron mopes along and nearly causes trouble. When they are stopped, Cyrelian manages to bribe the guards to pass them through-- even in the midst of sickness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise update due to fat-fingered edit!
> 
> Cyrelian's illness is becoming significantly more than an occasional inconvenience.
> 
> Trigger warning: vomit (I don't actually show any)

Mercifully, Erdi eschewed all comment.

She did raise an eyebrow at me as I came upstairs. I failed to see it. 

I handed her my cuirass. "The remainder of my personal armor ought to be around here someplace," I said. "Thurindir and I were talking about adjusting the fit of my left pauldron." 

Prior to my abrupt flight from the Thalmor Embassy, armor and its propensity for becoming ill-fitting had been one of my favorite excuses for an afternoon spent elsewhere. 

"Could you find any weapons?" I asked. 

By fiat all soldiers' weaponry-- swords, spears, warbows, polearms and so on--must be kept in the Solitude city armory. Thalmor are exempted under the Haafingar Attachment, but only so far. Soldier or Justiciar, we wear only a simple belt-dagger, unless we are on duty and specifically authorized by one of the Emissaries to do so. And, ever since the boar-hunting incident, social occasions are no longer exempted. So, unless Thurindir had a hidey-hole, we would find no weapons here. Most of Castle Dour was abandoned, its gates locked shut by Acting-Captain Jorluf. Castle Dour's armory would not be. For certain Jorluf would have guardsmen on that door. 

"One bow," Erdi said. "Not an elven bow, just some junk the guards didn't want. I love your bows, I used to get to shoot one when Elenwen used to have those day-long...um. Anyways, the string was bad but I found another one in a drawer. I found a quiver and somebody's fletching. Six usable arrows." 

"What weapons do you favor, assuming we find something?" I asked. 

"An elf dagger, I think would be better than mine," said Erdi. She showed me her simple iron dagger. "Swords and maces are really too heavy for me." 

"Anything that won't draw too much attention is fine for me," said Ahtar. "I'd love to have a quarterstaff." 

I poked through a chest of old leather scraps, which yielded nothing more interesting than a half-stitched scabbard.

"Nothing here," I said. "Keep looking."

I found a chest of drawers with a suspiciously tiny interior. 

"Let's see what the ambassador keeps in here," I said. "Oh-ho, that's nice, that will be very useful." 

I set aside a flask of Colovian brandy and a small waxed bag of something that smelled intoxicatingly sweet. I felt around the inner dimensions of the drawer, prodding, until-- "Got it! Found the gold stash," I said. 

It wasn't as much as I hoped, but it was something, and there were a couple of garnets in it.

We continued to go through cupboards and wardrobes... no weapons yet. 

"Is there anything I can wear to cover up a little, at least?" asked Ahtar. "My-- Jorluf's men will know me. Maybe we can walk out past Stormcloaks instead." 

He laughed sourly. 

It was a pretty forlorn hope, after all, that even the dimmest yokel Nord could mistake a Redguard for a Thalmor. A poor ruse, even for a Redguard who could stand face-to-face with one of us. 

"Something for a big, fat elf. Hood or full-coverage helmet," Ahtar said.

Erdi laughed-- "Isn't the Ambassador a bit, ah.. stout for an elf?" she said. "I'll go through his things."

"I found something!" Erdi said. "It's long and there's a mask thing that goes with.." 

"What in Oblivion is that?" Ahtar seemed alarmed by it, and indeed it was intimidating, roiling with barely-visible enchantments. 

"I think we're looking at the reason why Ambassador Orondil has cultivated fancy Nordic dress," I said. "He must be higher ranked than I had thought." I laughed. "My father hated these things," I said. "The shoulder wings catch on things and the vizard mask is hot." 

Truthfully the ensemble is so concealing-- it is meant to conceal-- that one could be a dremora and the populace would not notice. There are these.... rumors.. about Lord Naarifin, for instance. A Redguard--particularly a very tall Redguard-- ought to be no trouble. 

This was serendipitous indeed.

We tried to talk Ahtar into the general utility of such an outfit-- One could threaten generals! 

Kings! 

Topple empires!

Ahtar remained unconvinced. He didn't like the look of those enchantments. 

"Oh, come now," I said. "I used to try one of these masks on when I was a child. And we have servants and launderers who have to handle them and--look, it's harmless. It kind of tingles a bit, that's all. You'll endure it just fine." 

Erdi slid the robes over his shoulders, forestalling argument. The shoulders were too tight for him to lift his arms, so we slit the cloth with a dagger along the sides.

"Some needle and thread wouldn't come amiss," Erdi said. "There's a black shirt or two we can put together to patch so it won't show." 

Ahtar clambered back out of it and re-armored himself. He glared at us. 

"I hate that thing," he complained, about the vizard. "It bothers me." 

The vizard, curved to fit all around, looks disturbingly like a severed head. 

"Well, what do you want?" countered Erdi. "At least it covers your skin. Stop complaining! Maybe we'll even get as far as the Castle Dour gate without you taking an arrow in the back." 

"Look," I said. "Orondil's got a set of sable armor, too, and its straps will adjust nicely-- you want to take it along as well?" 

Newly-minted Justiciars are not allotted sable armor. I was jealous. For today, my old gold-colored moonstone scale-and-mail would have to suffice.

"I'll go take care of that errand," I advised, after another search for sewing implements proved fruitless. "Pack up some of this food and drink, would you?" 

Erdi had already threatened force; I had eaten a few bites to please her, but had no appetite. 

I paused to say a few words to Ahtar quietly, and for the brief embrace. 

Erdi huffed at us, audibly but without venom.

The city was numinous and still, its stonework yet radiating back the heat of the day. Despite the humid, unseasonable warmth--and the total lack of breeze-- the air felt intoxicating. 

I longed to run. 

A plodding walk suited my task better.

Even Castle Dour's Haafingar guards were disinclined to break this intoxicating reverie. 

Either they knew me as the mer who'd gotten them tomato-bread and beer, or Acting-Captain Jorluf had told them to leave me alone. Or they knew me not, and it was too warm a night to bestir themselves from their posts. 

I crossed the empty market plaza. 

Its lone guard, more diligent, tagged after me at a lengthy distance. He turned back once I crossed into the purview of the guard standing by Radiant Raiment's door. There were thatch-rakes and filled water-buckets, that had not been present earlier. Acting-Captain Jorluf had told me that he did not want any more arson. Evidently he is a man of his word. 

The door-guard let me knock.

I had considered many options-- persuasion, intimidation, even another chat with Acting-Captain Jorluf, but in the end simple avarice would have to do. 

Taarie took a portion of the Ambassador's emergency petty cash and both of the gems, and agreed to see what she could do.

Taarie offered to get me out of the city by myself. A lone person could slip away and vanish by night. I know the wilderness area hereabouts quite intimately, having dodged Haafingar guards and Thalmor patrols for months. 

I could simply walk out the front gate. 

Roggvir's gate. 

I declined Taarie's kind offer. She had needle and thread to lend, of course.

On duty at the main gate presently was Tostig the Rede-Speaker. 

I winced. 

This stalwart Nord stops every passerby and was something of a legend in wringing petty fines out of the citizenry. Cart overages. Weapons tickets. Littering. 

Taarie believed that he would be relieved by the shift-change near dawn. She did not yet know who would be coming on, but almost anyone would be better. She gave me further details about conditions at the marsh gate and the harbor gate. 

Ahtar and Erdi and I had already discounted these. The marsh gate involves six separate checkpoints and debouches into.. well, a swamp. Not a good place to go stumbling about in the dark. The harbor gate is merely two checkpoints but involves at least half a mile of dockways and-- apparently after my escapade with Jala's ship, Jorluf's Haafingar guards were sharing duties with the Stormcloaks. No ships were permitted at the dock now, so there was no help there. The harbor gate leads down to the same road as the main gate, so there was no advantage to it.

I brought someone back with me. 

Erdi made a pained face when she saw him. I know, I know. Gilgondoron spotted me on my way back and followed me up, begging piteously. (Nothing has changed in supervening years. Erdi claims that this is why Elysium house has so many cats.) 

I shooed him upstairs to stand watch out on the Ambassador's balcony whilst the rest of us made our preparations. I shall leave aside the ugly little bit where Gilgondoron figured out what we were doing with the Ambassador's official regalia and protested. 

"Look, it's just clothing-- it's not like I'm misusing credentials or wardsign," I argued. I had to pull rank on Gilgondoron and threaten him with re-education-- as if I am ever going near the Sapiarch of Indoctrination unless I'm in magickal binds--but that is neither here nor there. 

Erdi brought him watered wine and what was left of the stale sweetroll I couldn't finish-- he tried to speak to her but she closed the door in his face. 

"He's going to be a problem," she predicted glumly. 

"Yeah," I sighed.

I made a pile of all the useful items we had located. 

"Anything else?" I asked. 

Ahtar grunted in the negative. 

Erdi piped up: "I have something I brought with me from the palace," she said. "It's not much. It might help, if we get it to the right people in time." 

I had already made her giggle with my little imitation of Praefect Caelestis. "Is it Daedric?" I asked. 

Erdi stared at me. Her eyes were a little too wide. Why was she so nervous? 

"It's very dangerous," she said. 

I continued to tease: "Is it small enough to keep in your pocket?" 

"It's in my bodice," she said. 

Ahtar snorted. 

"I will-- ah-- leave whatever it is to your discretion, then," I said, a little too quickly. 

A shame I could find no daggers, maces, swords, quarterstaves, messenger-pigeons, secret communiques, blank letters of credit, or... well. Daedric shit. I told her that I ought to speak to Ambassador Orondil about this shocking oversight. Then again, this isn't a very well-funded embassy. 

Ahtar laughed. 

Erdi did not.

We debated the merits of our rather threadbare plan at length, one eye on the stairwell in case Gilgondoron should choose to come in.

I am not certain as to what interrogation tactics I shall have to withstand in future but I can never, ever tell Ambassador Orondil what became of his spare underclothing. I hope he blames the laundry. 

Ahtar wanted the open hood but we vetoed this. 

Too much exposure. Too risky.

He kept protesting. I told him we'd bring it along just in case.

Ahtar continued to express his very great displeasure with the face mask. 

Too bad. It would cover his face and we were running short of options. 

No one looks deep into the eyes of a Grand Justiciar. The last thing you'll ever want is for one of them to remember your face.

I asked Ahtar, what did he expect? At least we didn't have to try to paint his face or use a wig. 

And he'd managed to figure out how to drink through the vizard, so that was good. 

I did not mention my small talent at illusion-- although covering up bruises was about as good as I could do at that time. My magicka was at its threadbare limit-- if I'd had any left I would have gone apart to try to heal myself again. 

Why I did not think to ask that ass Gilgondoron if he had any healing skill is beyond me. 

Then again, perhaps my instincts made a wise demurral.

We had found another set of armor that might fit Erdi. There was even a helmet we thought might work if she wrapped her hair up first.

Erdi also had complaints: She wasn't used to armor. It would be too hot. She was too short. It smelled bad. It-- she tugged at it roughly--pinched.

"All armor smells bad," I said, helping her fold the leg-stockings under, to forestall that complaint. "Either it's brand-new and it stinks of dye and the forge or it's your own reek of sweat. Get used to it." 

"It still pinches," she groused. I loosened a buckle and she tugged at the padding to re-arrange it. 

"I don't see why I have to do this-- I'm no elf. I'm no lady knight." 

"Aren't you tired of standing around in halls and corridors, waiting for adventure?" I asked. "Don't wait for me to be your gallant hero. Go be your own golden knight."

Erdi huffed again, but I could see her imagining it. She looked pleased. 

"Hit the open road-- you've said it.." said Ahtar. The Ambassador's regalia robes muffled his laughter briefly as he pulled them on over Orondil's expensive sable armor. Ahtar had no complaints about the sable armor at all. "Finding strapping men in every cavern and gold at every tavern," he suggested. "Traveling the world and slaying... slaying..." 

"Fatass palace bureaucrats and nasty-minded housekeepers," I suggested, picking up the cumbersome shoulder layer and holding it out for Ahtar to slip his arms into. I fastened its catch, binding him into it. 

"I'm still the only one in here with a dagger," Erdi warned us.

The four of us left just as it became dawn.

A mer like Gilgondoron does have his uses. We made him walk down the hill in front of us. 

Sadly, the guards were not very lively. 

There were no accidents with crossbows.

Taarie had done her work and the gate-guards let us through. I did not recognize any of these guards-- they all looked pretty green. 

Ahtar has since advised me of his philosophy on helmet horns. They are handles, to be used for shaking sense into raw recruits. 

I did not need to see his face to know that his lip curled under hood-and-mask.

We walked by these young fools in silence, until-- really, up till now it had been too easy. 

"Go straight to the shift-commander outside," one of them piped. His face was painted and he looked like he'd been a bandit yesterday. "We got our eyes on you."

One in a more sensible-looking helmet followed us. He had a weedy little scruff of yellow beard.

Evidently the shift-commander had better things to do. We waited.

Barely an hour had elapsed past sunrise and it was already too hot for me out here. 

Weedy-beard and his teenage guardsmen friends appointed themselves our nursery-maids, hovering intrusively close. They were getting antsy. 

Gilgondoron attempted to speak to them. Ahtar turned his head and snapped at him in perfect Aldmeris. Gilgondoron froze at the anatomically improbable directive but did achieve substantial compliance: he shut up. 

Ahtar was already irritated. 

Gilgondoron'd had a couple of weapons stashed away which he'd failed to tell us about. At his insistence, we'd suffered more delays so that he could retrieve them. Ahtar had already confiscated the Orcish sword, after Erdi'd complained one too many times about being whacked in the legs by its scabbard. I'd had to tell Gilgondoron to stop fiddling around with the dagger-- if he did it again I was going to leave him to the tender mercies of one of the trigger-happy crosswbowmen. We would not be permitting Gilgondoron to carry a bow. 

"Whatsat?" demanded Weedy-beard, hearing the unfamiliar words. 

Gilgondoron tried to respond and Erdi smacked him in the ribs with an armored hand. 

He subsided, rubbing his chest.

Ahtar gave a few more remarks-- just a generally profane description of our present circumstances--but it was impressively sonorous, coming through the vizard mask. 

He gestured imperiously at me-- I was to pretend to translate.

"Ah--" I fought down an unpleasant internal sensation. "The Ambassador insisted we stay till the very last," I said. 

I could see that a couple more guardsmen were coming over towards us. Green or no, they had weapons and unpleasant-looking grins. They were standing far too close. 

"We are the last of the diplomatic corps. We are," I paused and swallowed past the immediate personal inconvenience. "Making our way out of the city towards High Rock, yes?" I said. "The Ambassador wishes to know if the city is about to fall. Is it?" 

Maintain composure, we are told, no matter the circumstance.

Weedy-beard laughed. "Yah, any time now." 

He looked over at his friends. "Elves want to know if the Legion got beat!" 

There was a general hooting at this and a brandishing of weapons. Again, too close to us. Erdi leaned back to avoid a careless errant axe-swing. 

"Hey, elves--we got somethin for you next." One of Weedy-beard's friends gave us a disturbing little show with his war-mace. 

Erdi started backing up slowly, trying to get range. 

"Be sensible, will you?" I said. I broke a cold sweat. 

I could sense more of the Stormcloaks gathering behind us-- why wasn't the watch-commander approaching? 

"Will you be the ones to bring the sword of the Dominion down on Ulfric's neck?" I asked, my voice thin. I shifted tone a little. Arrogant, not desperate. There is a knack to it... beads of sweats became rivulets pouring down my neck. "I don't think your commander be very pleased with you if a mer of this high a rank gets killed here." 

I waved at Erdi--stand down. She lowered the bow, fractionally. 

I took another shallow breath. 

Ensure, we are told, that there is always a clear path towards escape. 

I identified one. 

"Is your entertainment worth our lives?" I asked. Coolly. Disdainfully. 

"Hey!" interrupted Gilgondoron "Maybe these men will take our mon--"

I abandoned all dignity and bolted for the ditch. 

Erdi and Ahtar trailed along after me. 

Erdi looked concerned.

I got up wearily, wiping my mouth. 

We had finally gotten the Stormcloak shift-commander's attention. I was pointed out as the one who had made the mess. 

"Talos," said the shift-commander, disgusted. "Hey! You! Stop jerkin' off that mace and get down there with a shovel." 

Our tough young warriors began whining and complaining. Weedy-beard started grinning. Mace-lover's friends distanced themselves from him immediately, and tried to look as if they were about some other task. 

"Idiots." said the shift-commander. "You want the squits all over the warcamp?" He shook his head. "Or stand next to a buncha dead bodies all day? In this heat? Go get that mess covered up." 

Ahtar coughed portentously and inquired after my health in pellucid formal Altmeris.

"My apologies, Ambassador," I said, resuming my translator's duties. "Gentlemen, I am sorry. Not a contagion, just a sudden upset." 

I let Ahtar speak on his own for a little while, listening to the flowing cadence of Aldmeris; really, it was impressive coming through that mask. This time our audience maintained a much more respectful distance. 

"The Ambassador is quite aware that General Ulfric would be imposing a significant ransom for himself," I mock-translated. "He would like to make a deposit on that now. Would you like us to turn that cash over to you for safekeeping, or should it go directly to your superior officers?"

"Yeaah-ah," said the shift-commander, taking the purse from Weedy-beard and weighing it in his hand. "Rustleif-- pass them down to Yorvik. Don't talk about the money," he ordered. 

I spared him a cool nod: "The Ambassador would like to thank you for your efforts on behalf of the Dominion," I said. "Good luck with your little war."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Cyrelian must talk his way past several Stormcloak officers. He fails, with General Istvir, who demands that Ahtar be sent back to the city for execution.


	17. Cyrelian--Traitor's Bargain: Solitude 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian attempts to negotiate with the Stormcloaks to get his party safely out of Solitude. He and Ahtar manage to persuade Snowhammer Yorvik to let them go-- but then they encounter General Istvir. Cyrelian spends some quality time-- not really-- with Erdi. When General Istvir threatens Ahtar, Erdi rescues them, with the item she's carried with her since the Blue Palace.

After my embarrassing little display, the young Stormcloaks conducted our escort in a manner more befitting an Ambassador's dignity. 

There was no further taunting.

Gilgondoron had convinced himself that I carried some virulent plague. He trailed along as far away from me as the Stormcloaks would permit. It was almost worth the sour taste in my mouth to escape his constant breath at the nape of my neck. 

But I had no capacity to savor his discomfort: I had forgotten to bring along water.

Ahtar, still masked and robed, slowed his pace so that I would not be seen to falter. As we went upslope, he leaned in toward me: "Efforts on behalf of the Dominion," he mimicked, thankfully under his breath. "Snotty little prick." 

Buoyed by a sudden rush of affection, I felt much better. Erdi and I fought back the giggles. 

"If this Yorvik is who I think it might be..." began Ahtar, and--"Well, I'll be," he said with relief. "Get me up there next to the bald one. Alone." 

We were in luck. This was Yorvik.

The watch-commander observed from a distance to ensure that we got handed off to Yorvik with no further issues. He did not wish to get too close to me, either.

Some loud commotion at the Solitude gates interrupted me as I began. Yorvik frowned and pointed upslope. 

The shift-commander turned: "Get those Khajiit situated!" he bellowed, striding back uphill. "Closest clearing to the gate." He looked back over his shoulder: "Rustlief, stay here. Hey! I'll go get Tan the Walker if you boys can't keep yourselves wiped! No more hassle with travelers-- I mean it. Or I'll have Snowhammer Yorvik assign you all swamp patrol. Take your chances in Ulfric's camp with the spiders." The noise continued, and he growled and began to pick up his pace.

"Sorry there," Yorvik said. "The boys from Dragon Bridge are still learning." 

"Please," I importuned. "We are most concerned with getting the Ambassador out of the way of your operations here-- if you could possibly--" 

"Keep that fool kid back," snapped Ahtar. He'd been waiting for the shift-commander to go.

What? Ahtar shouldered past me. He seemed insistent. 

"The Ambassador requests the courtesy of your undivided attention," I temporized. "Might we speak privately?" 

Yorvik--unfazed by the Grand Justiciar's dread glory-- directed young Rustlief to stand well aside and took us to a quiet alcove by the cliff face. 

"Now then, your... Excellency, is it? What can I do for you this morning?" Yorvik's voice was measured, and thoughtful-- everyone's favorite schoolmaster, I thought. Able to quell the hordes of the Daedric realms with a raised brow and a mild word. The young Stormcloak had complied with alacrity. 

No wonder Yorvik'd been sent to this place of chaos.

Ahtar had turned to face into the blind corner. He peeled off his vizard mask. "Been a while, Tribune Calvus," he said softly. 

Yorvik's face mirrored my thoughts. 

I stepped into the walkway to block all view. 

"General's brat," prompted Ahtar.

"Kyne wept,” said Yorvik. “Sulla!” 

“Been a long time since I heard that name. You got a new one too, huh?” 

“Well, to be fair it’s the old one,” said Yorvik. “Went by ekename in the Legion, you know how that goes, all of us Nords. Four Yorviks in my company alone.” 

“Yeah, I been using the agnomen since I got up here,” said Ahtar. “Too much backchat otherwise. Heard you’re one of Skald’s, now.” 

Yorvik said: “Some years now. Before all this mess. Thane standing for Heljarchen—I thought you’d left Skyrim. Years ago.” 

“After what happened?” said Ahtar. “Nah. I went a little crazy—even Hoaggsen thought I was too much. When I cooled off, Juls thought it would be best for the family if I separated, so I cashed out. Ended up here.” 

“How is Juls, anyways?,” asked Yorvik. “Meant to send a word after the old man died. I was sorry to hear about that you know. The Imperial Legion will never know his like again.” 

"Ahh," said Ahtar. “Thanks for that." He rubbed at an indentation the mask had made on his forehead. “Juls is well. Had a letter last month. Getting on, you know how it is. House full of kids—well, grandkids at this rate. Getting fat.” 

“Oh, now?” Yorvik gripped Ahtar’s arm and shook him a little, as if sizing him up for the stew-pot. “I mighta thought, hey, I know a big tall Redguard.. but not so big as they said on that sign. Forty, fifty pounds lighter, maybe.” 

“Fuck you too, Trib,” said Ahtar, congenially. 

He and Yorvik stood grinning at each other.

For a few moments they spoke of family; of old friends. 

I gathered that Thane Yorvik now served as Snowhammer in Ulfric's vanguard, which had just arrived last night and the bulk of which was camped downslope at the Solitude Sawmill. Yorvik's men from his own steading--closer to Whiterun Hold, I gathered--were along the rocky land to the northeast beyond the docks. Tan's cadre at the recruitment camp hailed from the southern badlands area of Eastmarch, but these new arrivals were from the Pale. Ulfric was still on his way to Solitude-- but via the marches, not along the beach. That made no sense to me, unless-- had Ulfric come south through Hjaalmarch first, to take Morthal? 

I wondered uneasily how many cities the Stormcloaks now held. 

"That's... that's one good big scar you got there," said Yorvik, eventually. 

Ahtar discounted this, though I know it bothered him. "Forsworn hag-spittle--worse than a mage's firebolt," he said. "Six years ago. Took a lot of mage-healing. Too much money. Did pretty well at court before it all. Things have pretty much gone to shit ever since." 

"I think you're lucky to be alive," Yorvik reproved. He tsk'd: "Quite a price on your head."

"I know," said Ahtar. "Hell of a thing to get for followin' orders. Likely got a price on my head now from that asshole Tullius, too." 

"Well, I don't mean to be rude about it, or pushy, now--but there's reasons I went over," said Yorvik, cannily. "Would you ah, mind telling me though--" Yorvik flicked at the justiciars' robes. 

Ahtar ignored this: "I pulled a few strings to get the wife sent back to Lilla and Juls. Didn't have much left to get myself out." 

"Oh, I can see that, all right," said Yorvik. "But..." 

"It all happened too quick," Ahtar explained. "We was all expecting a trial-- or maybe a writ of execution from the Emperor--some kinda public announcement at least. But I got woken up by Aldis in the middle of the night."

Yorvik grunted softly at this. "With the Thalmor, then...eh?" he said, prodding at Ahtar's black sleeve distastefully.

I did not like where this was headed.

“Those pricks left their tower unguarded and we stole all this shit,” I said. 

Yorvik's more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger manner does not mean that he is a fool. Unfriendly blue eyes probed me. “Oh, I don't think so,” he said. "You're one of them." 

Too dry-mouthed to quibble matters of allegiance, I said: “Ran away six months ago and wintered in the wild. Still being hunted. Thalmor patrol got close to me a few weeks back and Tan's guys ran them off.” 

Yorvik remained skeptical. 

“He’s the only elf,” said Ahtar. “Well, him and the guy back there in the robe, but ah, that one’s kind of a-“ 

Mental defective, Ahtar did not need to say. It was not a difficult inference to reach. Gilgondoron, standing by further up the road, was no longer the perfectly-groomed regulation-book Thalmor. After days of living as a fugitive in the city, his robes were disheveled and he was filthy. His dirty hair stuck up out of a rent in his hood. 

"He ain't worth killing," said Ahtar dismissively. "Might be worth a little bit in ransom. Assuming you care to feed him." 

“He just followed me because I told him I was in charge," I said wearily. "Didn't tell him I was a runaway." 

“Let him fuck off back to the Embassy, for all we care,” said Ahtar. 

“The girl?” asked Yorvik. He had noted that "we"-- I was sure of it. Yorik was frowning. 

“A Nord,” I said quickly, to cover that little lapse. Though truthfully I wasn’t sure. Breton, maybe? I hadn’t ever asked Erdi about her pedigree, as this is not a polite topic of discourse to suggest to any human. So few possess knowledge of their ancestors at all, much less any ancestors of note. 

“Palace maid. Not an elf," Ahtar advised Yorvik. "My ah... girlfriend." 

Yorvik looked dubious. 

"You wanna check, have her lift the helmet and show ears,” said Ahtar. 

I was fairly certain that this was not the point upon which Yorvik had furrowed his brow. 

"They're with me," said Ahtar. "I owe them for getting me out. If you can't help us, that's fair--"

"--but it can't be just me and not them," Ahtar said. "Please?"

"Please," Ahtar said. "I'm kind of lost here. I'll go to Hoa-... to Ulfric-- whatever you think is best. Let me plead my case." He managed to crack a painful little laugh. "I'll tell him I've fallen into bad company." 

"Oh, I can see that, Sulla," said Yorvik, sucking at his teeth. "Nothing's changed there. You got some pretty bad habits," he said. 

Ahtar bowed his head. 

A long moment passed. Long enough for me to shift my weight, subtly, so that I could lean against the rock face and lower my eyelids. I let Ahtar carry the burden of caring about whether his old acquaintance would turn us in to be executed. At least we were standing in the shade. 

"All or none, Calvus," said Ahtar, slowly. "Go ahead and call Jorluf down here if that's what you need to do." 

"Hold on, there," said Yorvik."I'm still thinking." 

His voice remained thoughtful. Mild. Bad officers bluster. This man would say three quiet words and events would follow very quickly. 

"What's your opinion of the new guard-commander up there now?" Yorvik asked, sharply. The schoolmaster's voice. A test. 

"Shift-commander Jorluf? Steady. Not a fuckup." Ahtar shrugged. "He gave me fair warning. I was too full of myself to listen." 

"Will he hold?" asked Yorvik. Till Ulfric comes, he meant. Ah, now that was the question of the day. 

“Wish I could help you on that,” said Ahtar. “I know how Jorluf was under orders, couldn’t say how he is in charge. All this kind of caught me up. Thought he was just going to go to the jarl with a grievance, at first. Then this talk of Skyrim this, that…” He turned the vizard mask over in his hands, reflecting on it. “I’m not one of them, Trib,” Ahtar said more quietly. “If I wanted to go over to Ulfric I would resign. Letter on the desk, weapons racked in the armory-- All in good form. Not throw some rag on my belt in the middle of the night.” He sighed regretfully. "Thought better of him." 

"Do you want my opinion, Snowhammer?" I asked. 

My vision had started dimming-- but not from nausea this time. Once more I knew my words would tip the fragile balance. But how? I could do what I could to spare the Vinius family; my friends the tailors; Lorion; the others--but at what cost? The cost to the Aldmeri Dominion could be an entire human generation-- perhaps two or three. The way that these men breed, that could be too late. Our islands will be drowned by their ocean. I knew my duty. I could not discern in myself the right answer. One way or the other, no matter how I spoke, I would be making the traitor's bargain. I could not see the clear path. 

So I told the bare truth. 

"Jorluf is running flat-out so he doesn't fall down," I advised. "No one planned a rebellion--certainly not him-- and it's been everything that he can do to keep things from devolving into riot. They were burning houses, what, two nights ago? He couldn't even put a stop to it until he got some more of your men out on the street." That last was a guess on my part, but I considered it to be a fair one.

I shaded my eyes to look out across the estuary to the distant mists of Hjaalmarch. I saw no telltale plumes of dust or cook-fire smoke. Wherever Ulfric's army was, it was not here yet. "Jorluf's stalling," I said. 

Yorvik grunted, unsurprised. 

"He'll keep the bulk of you and Tan's men waiting out here for no good reason," I said. "He'll keep you out till the Imperial Navy arrives. You all aren't going to win against a fleet detachment and Tullius' full legion--" I fought back a cough; my throat was dry--"fighting'd be futile and even you Nords would see that. Jorluf's got a Legate and his entire staff mewed up at the Winking Skeever," I coughed several times again, trying to force the words out of a dry throat "--likely for the purposes of the prisoner-exchange later--" I had to stop because I could not muster the saliva to speak. 

Yorvik reluctantly handed his waterskin to me, evincing great distaste. I was grateful for it. 

"Not sure I follow," Yorvik said, considering. "He turning his cloak twice, now?" 

I shook my head, and squirted more water into my mouth. Some of it ran down inside the collar of my gambeson: heaven. 

"Jorluf knows he's a dead man walking," I said. "You can see it in his eyes. He knows he's going up on the block as a traitor-- he's just trying to set things up before that day comes so's he can get as many of his men out as possible." 

Yorvik was truly looking at me now. Seeing me, not the elf. 

"Ulfric wants this city for his own prestige, yes?" I asked. "How could he refuse such a tempting prize, dangled before his eyes in the full sight of his men, so early in this war?" I held up the water-skin: "Praise the gift, no matter the giver," I intoned, handing it back. 

"Son of a bitch. Who the fuck is the giver?" demanded Ahtar, abruptly. 

I beckoned Gilgondoron over to Yorvik. He happily detailed the Thalmor role in the sabotage of the Solitude Lighthouse, absent which Yorvik's thin crew and Tan's raw recruits would have faced two fully laden troop-carriers of the Imperial Fleet. Yesterday. 

Pleased when I let him claim all the credit, Gilgondoron made no protest when I sent him back away to stand with Erdi down the road out of earshot. Yorvik shook his head, slowly. Ahtar was looking angry. Angry with me.

"Still thinking it's a good idea to miss your harvest season?" I asked Yorvik. 

"Oh, I'm thinking you're no runaway," Yorvik said, mildly. "Whoever-it-is you are. You're the enemy." His eyes were not mild. They burned, cold. "And your lies," he said, still calm and measured, "are meant to give me doubt." My skin prickled. Acknowledge the worthy adversary. 

Accordingly, I nodded: "My name is Cyrelian. I am an oath-sworn agent of the Thalmor," I acknowledged. "On an extended leave unsanctioned by my officer, who has been detailed elsewhere for some time. While her ultimate plans are in fact to foster your ..." 

What had Praefect Caelestis said? Buncha Nords fighting over Nord shit. 

"Internecine conflict...she would not be in agreement with such a-- such a clumsy implementation." I said, and frowned in the oblivious Gilgondoron's direction. "It would be very stupid of us to encourage you all to overextend your resources to this degree. This war would be done and over with before next summer, and not on your terms. May I?" I held out my hand for the water-skin. 

Reluctantly, Yorvik gave it back. 

I drank. Not to make a further point. It was drink or lose my voice completely. "I would prefer you avoid a pointless and costly siege--but what you do is up to you," I said, and cleared my throat. "I would not presume to set your course." 

"Keep it," said Yorvik, when I made to hand the water-skin back. 

Then-- "What's your business with him?" Yorvik said, indicating Ahtar, who stood silently furious. 

"I negotiated with his wife in regards to some food supplies getting up to Jorluf," I said. "In return I pledged my word to get him out of the city to safety." 

Yorvik returned his full attention to Ahtar. I had ceased to be of interest. 

"When a snake tells you it's a snake, what do you do with it, Captain?" he mused. 

"Yes, Tribune," said Ahtar. 

"Have we had this conversation before?" Yorvik's voice remained unruffled, serene.

"Yes sir," said Ahtar.

Silence followed. 

Even absent the vizard mask, I could not read Ahtar's face. 

I drank more of Yorvik's water, relishing a fantasy that it might actually be deadly poison. No such luck. 

Eventually Yorvik sighed. "Well, then I suppose you want me to let you go. With no consequence, hey? Just like old times." Yorvik was speaking to Ahtar; I was once more not-a-person. "It's Istvir's men downslope and along the road," he said, rubbing at his scalp. 

"Istvir, hah?" said Ahtar. "Still alive?" 

"Couldn't kill him with an axe," said Yorvik. "Men have tried. His guys are all in along the walls and down through the marsh, so if you want to run, take good care." 

"We'll look out for them," Ahtar promised. 

"Would you happen to have a better solution?" I asked Yorvik. 

Yorvik frowned. 

Truthfully I had not planned to usurp Ahtar's plan at this point, but I really did not feel up to the running-swimming-climbing that an evasive course through the woods or marsh would entail. Gilgondoron-- my thoughts had turned to abandoning him--would be hopeless. I had deep concerns about Erdi's ability to keep up. 

"Well, I could send you down with a slate to Stormblade Istvir," Yorvik suggested to Ahtar. "Assuming that you want to take your chances with--." Another cold look in my direction-- I didn't think Yorvik meant Istvir. "--that one. Up to you though." 

Ahtar went off to talk to Erdi, quietly. 

I leaned on the wall again and let my eyes close. A decision was reached. I took no part in it. 

Gilgodoron dithered nearby. When he approached too closely I coughed and he instantly retreated. 

"Probably best to speak to Istvir," Ahtar said to Yorvik. "Give me the slate." 

After another interminable period we were presented with a message-slate and pair of Stormcloaks, one familiar. 

"Take them to Istvir, Ruslief," Yorvik ordered. "If they want to go into Dragon Bridge or run off into the swamp, don't worry about it--just let them go. Don't let them wander around the war camp unattended."

We walked with our escort to the outskirts of the Stormcloak camp, on the Solitude side of Dragon Bridge. Istvir was not around and we were notified that it was likely to be several hours' wait. 

Gilgondoron kept trying to talk himself up to the Stormcloaks. He was going to be a problem. 

I suggested that we make our way to Dragon Bridge. 

Gilgondoron complained. 

"You're right, of course," I demurred. "It's by no means mission-critical to report to the First Emissary." I coughed on purpose, and Gilgondoron sidled away a few steps. "You're welcome to come with us--" I coughed again, rackingly. "Likely to be close quarters till we get to Winterhold..." 

Gilgondoron volunteered himself to go to Dragon Bridge at once to await the First Emissary's arrival. 

Ahtar elected to stay in the warcamp and wait for Istvir. 

I did not trust Gilgondoron to not get himself murdered by the Nords, so it was needful for me to go as well. I persuaded Erdi to come along, with the hope that she would also decide to take refuge in Dragon Bridge.

Dragon Bridge sat with its gates locked and its banners announcing its continued allegiance. An unofficial cease-fire had obtained. Erdi and I went with our companions up to the gate.

We had heard that Pentius Oculatus had imposed order, and it appeared to be so.

I began to negotiate with the Imperial-allied guardsmen to get Gilgondoron safely remanded. 

A few moments into this discussion I had to beg Erdi to come over and pull the lace of my cuisses loose for me. Following this, I decamped abruptly to the thick tall brush well off the side of the road, for an extended conversation with nature. 

"Don't come closer," I warned Erdi. Although I was far beyond the scope of any ordinary humiliation by this time, my own personal business had not concluded. 

"I got Gil to go inside," she called down through the bushes. "Penitus Oculatus wanted to know why we aren't going with him--they said it's going to be very dangerous once the battle starts--" 

"Go back up and wait," I managed. "Please." 

She came down a couple more times to check on me. "The praefect said don't worry about it," Erdi reported. "He was talking about taking us into custody for our own protection but now he says we're free to go." 

"Uh-huh." 

"I told him what was going on with you."

I willed Erdi to go away. As Dragonbridge was just a few yards downwind of me, I doubted very much that Penitus Oculatus had needed an update. 

"You sure you're all right?" she persisted. 

I groaned. "Just a few more minutes, please." 

Much later, I emerged: "Where's our guard?" Weedy-beard -- that is to say, Stormcloak-recruit Rustlief the Unblooded of Dragon Bridge was nowhere to be seen. Nor was his compatriot. 

"I'm pretty sure they deserted," said Erdi. "His ma came up to the walkway on top of the gate and started carrying on. They want him home for the harvest. So they both went in." Her nose wrinkled. "Also I might have told him that I might need some help to carry you." 

She looked concerned. 

"No need," I said, and clambered back up to the road.

Erdi and I walked back down the hill, much more slowly than we had gone up. 

"They don't mention sickness much in all those tales of adventure," she said. 

"Mhm," I agreed, "Everyone mentions how glorious you'll look in the armor, too. No one mentions what it smells like." 

"You sure you're going to be okay? I was pretty worried." 

"Pretty sure I got rid of whatever was bothering me," I said. 

Erdi agreed that some of the things we'd found to eat in the Thalmor Headquarters had seemed a bit elderly, and wondered if we should get rid of the cheese. I told her I hadn't eaten the cheese, so it was probably fine. I was feeling poorly enough that it took me several seconds to realize that this was faulty logic, but I let it stand. We did not have other rations.

"Do you think we have time to go down to the river and wash?" she said. "I have soap. Oh, and rags." 

"That bad?" I asked, knowing the answer. 

"Mm." 

"We'll make the time," I sighed. 

Thankfully, my illusion spells were still in place and I did not have to explain away the healing bruises. That would have been even more awkward.

Ahtar was not pleased. "About time you got back," he said. 

Erdi explained what had happened.

Ahtar shoved me down on a nearby rock outcropping, perhaps with a bit more force than necessary. 

"Hey!" I protested. 

"Sit," he directed. "Rest and drink. Small sips. I don't wanna have to carry you." 

He put a bucket in front of me; it was a quarter full of sweet cold water. 

And then: "Explain to me why that idiot claimed he put out the lighthouse." 

He was still angry. I didn't need to see his face to know that. No possible explanation for Gilgondoron would serve. I drank as commanded, in small slow sips, considering. 

Erdi rescued me: "Gil was talking about it while we were waiting for you," she told Ahtar. "Jaree-Ra." From her tone it was clear which one she thought to be the mastermind. 

"Filthy Argonian never would have set foot in this city, if High King Torygg was still alive. I can tell you that," Ahtar said, disgusted. 

"Who's he?" I asked. 

"Thinks he's gonna be the next crime boss," said Ahtar. "He and his sister have a little crew of what they call privateers. Constantly moving stolen goods. We never did catch them at it." He stuck a finger under the vizard mask and rubbed some sweat away. "Sorry to take it out on you," he said. "Some friends of mine're still in the Legion. Serve on those ships sometimes."

"Gilgondoron didn't tell Jaree-Ra to put out the lighthouse," I said. "He just wanted Jaree-Ra to do something spectacular to catch the First Emissary's attention. Gilgondoron could never have come up with that on his own. Altmeri wouldn't even find something like that thinkable to do." 

Ahtar gave vent to profanity. 

"We're an island nation," I protested. "Do you know what we do to pirates who do that to our ships?" 

More profanity, to the effect that if there were some heretofore unknown atrocity which had not yet been committed, the Thalmor would pioneer it.

"Do you really think Thalmor'd do anything this sloppy?" I asked. 

"All you vultures are fuckin' sloppy," said Ahtar.

"Well, it wasn't my plan to set up a Haafingar rebellion," I said. 

"Yeah," said Ahtar, thinking. "The Empire tried to use Ulfric as a catspaw in the Reach and look how well that turned out. I think the Empire was advised they could pacify the area and maybe rid themselves of some useless political-appointee general who was turning out to be a real hothead. Now the Empire's got two wounds bleeding it dry-- Ulfric's Stormcloaks and Madanach's Forsworn." 

"I thought you were just talking about Solitude for a moment," said Erdi. 

"Nah," said Ahtar. "Not too hard to see who benefits from this mess. Not Skyrim. Not the Empire. It's these vultures. Good opportunists." His hands mimed eagles' claws.

"First Emissary Elenwen's been gone--on and off-- for over a year," I told them. 

"So everyone's been kept to routine duty-assignment only." Which does not include destabilizing local regimes. We have a specific approval process for that. 

I got up, slowly. 

We began the walk down to the command tent. Maybe Istvir would finally be present.

Erdi pulled me aside: "Are you going to be able to stand up to this?" 

"I hope so," I said. She had forestalled a similar inquiry, which I had been about to pose to her. 

"Good," she said. "Because you look pretty awful."

Halfway down, Ahtar came back to me. "You certain your people didn't cause all this?" he asked. 

I shook my head: "The Thalmor have nothing to do with Jorluf's mutiny." 

"Tell the truth," he said. "I bet you funded some of that Skyrim-for-the-Nords horseshit." 

"Oh yes," I said. To a certainty. "But not all this. Most of the Justiciars and special troops are with Elenwen. She hasn't ever been back long enough to get anything done. We've been down to just the embassy security detail and the kitchen staff." 

Erdi asked. "Could they have-- you said you've been gone six months? Anything could have happened." 

"I would doubt that in the extreme," I said, pausing to rest. "That is not how we do things. A First Emissary would be considered plenipotentiary and could so order, yes. But charging in like Nords, all bluster and no direction?" I shook my head, slowly, as if for dramatic effect. I was out of breath and trying not to wheeze. "No. Even assuming that her hand was at the helm, there would have to have been pre-approved contingency plans set up all along. There were not." 

Erdi handed me a waterskin. "You were pretty junior," she said. 

"All Justiciars are regularly briefed," I said, miffed. I pretended to drink a little more. I could feel the water sloshing inside myself and rather hoped it would stay put. Could I delay a little longer? 

"Also--" I said. "Assets have to be managed. Paid. Never saw mention of this in any of the accounts." Nothing that fit this timetable. "Orondil conducted several audits of Embassy expenditures," I said slowly, pretending thoughtfulness. I was having disturbing muscle cramps, and flutterings in an area which I did not wish to mention. I squirmed, willing the unpleasant sensation to subside. "Not even buried in the line items," I said at length. 

Had there been any irregularities noted in Elenwen's budgets, Orondil would have gone out to the Khajiit camps to dance under the moons. He'd have birthed kittens of delight. 

"... I was on goodwill duty," I said. "So you'd think that the Ambassador would have tipped me off so as to prevent some sort of--" Gilgondoron-level "--incident." I fell silent. The cramps were easing. 

Erdi said: "The Ambassador could have just come up with it on his own to take advantage of the situation. Or maybe Third Emissary Rulindil..." 

Ahtar snorted his derision. 

"The Third Emissary's too indisposed to plan so much as a bottle-party," I said. "And strategic planning is well outside of an Ambassador's mandate." 

"Heh. Yeah. I bet the Thalmor just love rewarding that kind of initiative." said Ahtar. 

"The starting-wars kind?" I said. "Not so much. We reserve that kind of bad decision-making to the Convention."

We trudged onward. I touched Ahtar's sleeve. 

He turned. 

"If I engineered this shit," I said suddenly. "Why would I leave myself standing in it?" 

The blank face of Ahtar's vizard mask regarded me for a moment. 

He nodded. 

We went on.

The Nords in Istvir's warcamp were not welcoming.

Erdi, who is generally charming, completely failed to engage them in conversation. 

I saw a great deal of amulet-clutching.

No one hindered us, though. 

There did not seem to be any real structure to the higgledy-piggledy Stormcloak warcamp, but there was discipline. The cooking-supplies tent was set well off from the privy-ditch. Belongings were neatly stowed. All parties appeared to be engaged in some task or another. No one was drunk. There were women present, and they were not camp followers. From their weaponry and bearing, these were combat soldiers. Unusual indeed, for human-kind.

One of the women-- I squinted, so as not to seem to stare. Yes. Evidently pregnant. Hm.

We, of course, do not separate married couples in the service, as best as can be managed given operational circumstances, but this was curious. A cultural peculiarity of Nords... or perhaps a telling glimpse of the desperation of these Stormcloaks. I made a mental note. Still, their camp did not look so poor as all that.

I had a pretty good feeling that Istvir was present by now, observing us and waiting to see what we would do or say. 

I settled down on the ground.

My suspicions proved correct. After a little while, one of his men came forward and took the message-slate from our guard.

"No," said Istvir Dead-eye. "I think not." 

My heart sank. We had just lost our little gamble. 

"You want to be sent onward-- the elf, fine. The lady, fine. He--" Istvir pointed at Ahtar "goes back up top to Captain Jorluf." 

I protested that we'd been sent down here for sanctuary to no avail. 

"Yorvik promised to send you down here in safety and he did, " growled Istvir.

"Any more than that-- maybe Yorvik shouldn't have staked his word against another man's discretion." Istvir looked pleased with himself to deny us. 

The nearby Stormcloaks' incredulous faces told me all that I needed to know. We were not in Alinor or Wayrest or Daggerfall, where the functionaries like to parse razor-fine distinctions. Nords are straightforward in their dealings. 

"Why?" I asked. 

I had to keep him talking. Any moment he would beckon over his men, and --thunderous looks or no--they would tear off his mask.

"Is it not enough money?" I asked. 

Istvir grunted in the negative. He did not want money. 

More of his soldiers were starting to gather. There was much glaring and whispering. Istvir stood easily, confident because Nords hate elves. But even now it remains to be seen whether they hate lawyering more. I could tell that Yorvik was a popular officer; Istvir not so much, and even less so now that he had cast Yorvik's sacred word in the mire. 

"Because we need him," I said, floundering. "He is necessary to--" Oh, no, Stormcloaks weren't going to volunteer to assist the Dominion. That would not do. I thought quickly and began again: "The Dominion is willing to pay well in excess of his current bounty--it could fund your war effort for--"

I was making no headway. 

"Legate-- I mean Stormblade?" said Erdi. "I have something that you want much more than a useless head on a pike." 

All turned towards her. 

"I can give you Solitude," Erdi said.

"You don't hold Solitude because Jorluf hasn't broken into the Blue Palace yet," Erdi told him. "He's unwilling to risk Elisif in the fighting. If she dies, what legitimacy do you Stormcloaks have to hold power here?" 

She smiled, and held up a brass key.

"Elisif IS Solitude. Jorluf knows it. Ulfric knows it. He wants her surrender. And I hold the means to it."

"We hold this land by right of arms!" bellowed Istvir. "And If I want that key, young lady, what stops me from taking it?" 

"Seventeen gates lead into the Blue Palace," said Erdi. "Some are barred, some are blocked..only one will aid you. Good luck finding the right keyhole before Stentor and Bearclaw come with firebolts and pots of boiling oil. You would lose your surprise and be forced to break off, or find a battering-ram." 

She said: "If you wanted to break into the Blue Palace by force your men would be drinking in there now. If you wanted Elisif dead she would be hanging from the Solitude gates. Ulfric wants her surrender, and he wants her alive. Only I can give you that." 

Istvir stared at her for long moments.

I confess, so did we.

"Give me what I want, and I will give you Solitude," said Erdi. "A peaceful surrender in proper order. With a new High King by right of law. What could the Imperials do then, but get back on their ships? What could Tullius say, if Jarl Elisif chooses to acknowledge a new High King?" 

Istvir stood frozen silent. I could not see him breathing. 

"Or Ulfric can have his long winter's siege, bloody as it will be," said Erdi. "Good luck getting all your troops up behind the walls before the Imperial ships start landing." 

"We have the Solitude docks blockaded," said Istvir hoarsely. "And Port Turranus." 

"What about Northwatch Keep?" I asked. 

Reflexively, Istvir glanced up at the road. An Imperial force docking at Northwatch Keep could march up the hill towards the Thalmor Embassy-- at which point they had a fine paved road and free reign to smash the Stormcloaks against the rock walls of Solitude. 

"Oh," said Erdi. "I hadn't even thought of that. Northwatch Keep harbor's been silted up forever." 

"Before it was given to the Thalmor?" I said. "Alteration mages have their uses." 

All was silent. 

Then-- "What are your terms?" grated Istvir.

A lengthy negotiation followed, which I should have attended. I did attend. Three or five minutes' worth. 

My other concerns became much more pressing. 

So, whilst Erdi bargained away the fate of Solitude and the honor of Elisif the Fair, I huddled miserably near the privy ditch. My wary Stormcloak attendant stood a good twenty yards back.

Ahtar came to stand by me. By Istvir's order, there were three archers watching him closely, bows already strung. After a time I crawled away to lie on the sun-warmed rocks, as if I were a lizard taking a nap. Ahtar did bring me more water. I groaned and tried to wave away this futile effort, but he insisted. 

"You left her up there," I said. "Alone with them." 

"Couldn't watch much more of it," Ahtar said. "She's served Jarl Elisif since Elisif came to the city. Kind of making me sick." 

"Worse than this?" I managed to laugh a little. "Move," I said. "You're blocking my sun." I closed my eyes again. Despite the warm day, I was cold. So cold. Shivering. 

"You all right?" he asked, suddenly. "Because you look like shit." 

Truthfully I was hurting a great deal. The pain had now come to visit me in the daylight hours as well, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was too low on magicka to risk a healing spell. 

Ahtar left me then, and walked back up to Istvir. 

Istvir came to look at me. He grunted. "Yeah, you're right," Istvir said to Ahtar. "Probably would spread disease. I'm sending you with the khajiit--they've been complaining and I want them on their way to Dawnstar by the quickest way possible. If you help them, they might be able to go along the coastal road. I've got some wounded with them who I'd like to see get home." Istvir prodded me with a toe. "Throw this one in a different cart." 

"Key check out okay?" asked Ahtar. 

"One of the runners took it up to Jorluf. Waiting to have one of his men test it. If it's good he'll have them signal from the tower. Waiting for that now." 

"Alright," said Ahtar.

"No hard feelings, brother," said General Istvir. "I made a promise to Jorluf earlier and it gripes me when that Shor-bedamned accountant Yorvik pisses it away. Thane Milkdrinker." Istvir spit. "Anyways I figured I needed a rallying point if it all went to shit, and that's what heads on stakes are for. Nothing personal." 

"Glad to oblige," said Ahtar, tersely... and then smirked. All at once the gallows humor struck the two of them as funny; they both went from snickering to outright laughter.

"Ulfric'll like this better," said Istvir. "Shame to miss a good fight, though." His voice grew thoughtful. I think he was looking at me. "There'll be some good fights later," he mused. 

"I'm going to go off behind those rocks for a leak." Ahtar told him, still chuckling. "Don't want to alarm your guys when they get a look at my parts and think that I'm another one a these diseased Thalmor."

They laughed together. 

As soon as Ahtar was gone Istvir kicked me in the flank with an armored boot, hard enough to make me see stars. Gasping for breath, I curled up around my belly. He did it again, and I nearly blacked out. Then Istvir went to one knee beside me, and lifted my face by twisting my helmet upward. 

"Look at me, filth," he said, increasing the pressure till I opened my eyes enough to meet his dark gaze. "Soon the day comes when we cleanse the land of your kind." 

He meant to put me into terror, but I was too worn down, and-- his little theater struck me as so very homelike-- so very amusing. You sound just like my aunt Elodie, I thought irreverently.

Istvir recognized he'd lost the battle somehow. Why was I smiling? He made a noise of disgust and dropped me. This time when he spit it was so close to my face that I felt the moisture of it spatter up from the dirt. I lay still. 

I expected Istvir to walk away. 

He didn't bother.

I lay still, breathing shallowly. Silently. A justiciar's training is rigorous. I had endured far worse. 

Ahtar came back. He and Istvir spoke again. Places, times, details. 

Slowly I began to feel warm again. The sun was helping. 

Once Istvir was gone, Ahtar helped me to rise. I was uneasy about him, now, but I let him help me. When Ahtar saw the spittle near me, he suppressed an angry noise. He said nothing, but patted my shoulder, to soothe me. As if he knew of my misgivings. After a few moments clinging to his arm, I could steady myself enough to walk. 

Erdi joined me, and we sat on the rocks awaiting permission to go to the Khajiit. 

So much waiting.

If we had run off into the marsh we could have had arrows in the back by now.

Thankfully we did not have to hike the whole way to the city gates-- Istvir allowed us to take a boat to the city docks, and we went up the harbor steps. 

This took some time for me. 

We ended there, not fifty feet from where we had started, at the gates of Solitude. 

This time we had Istvir's precious safe-conduct in our grip, and an escort and a plan to get us all the way to Winterhold. That was worth any amount of spittle.

Ahtar kept his vizard on. He was to stay masked until we were safely out of the view of his former comrades.

The Khajiit recognized me from my goodwill-duty days with the Thalmor.

Ma'dran and I spoke a few words. 

Per the terms of Erdi and Istvir's agreement, Ahtar and Erdi and I were to help serve as advance scouts for the caravan, to ensure that it did not cross the path of bandits, pirates, large columns of troops-- anything which might prove too difficult for the caravan's guards to cope with. The caravan would be moving much more slowly than usual due to the Nord wounded sent along with it. 

Ma'dran agreed that we could borrow weapons from him for this purpose. He also agreed to a reasonable equipage, as we had nothing. 

Ma'dran was very pleased to accept the sack of unrefined moonsugar that I unearthed from Erdi's knapsack, as a bit of lagniappe. 

He cut our conversation short, though, telling me to go see Seshemarjo.

Seshemarjo appears to be a good natured, kindly Khajiit. 

He is not. He is a torturer. 

After a few minutes of debate, he angrily summoned Omir and Ra'zhinda over to me. Between the three of them, they got Ahtar and myself under the cover of one of their tents, and forced us to strip off our clothing and armor. He made me drink a foul potion-- all of it-- and when I refused the moonsugar, he wet his finger down, put it in the bag, and then stuffed his coated finger into my mouth. 

He made me lie down with icy wet cloths on my body and face-- replacing them when they were not deemed cold enough. I protested. It was Heartfire! Where had Khajjit managed to find ice this late in the summer? This was severely uncomfortable. The Khajiit forced cold drinks down my throat, and threatened me with a terrible fate should I be sick again. Oh, gods I was cold.

I was too suddenly much too warm again, so I stopped fighting. It was good to lie in the hammock and feel the breezes waft all around me. 

Could the cloths perhaps be wetted again?

Ahtar is better than I at determining when to stop fighting. He sat in the chair when told to, drinking his sek. And ale. And about a gallon of water. He ate what looked like two pounds of cured salmon as I watched, licking all of the salt from his fingers. Then he ate his way through an entire bread-and-tomato salad.

I felt ashamed. Ahtar had never faltered nor complained. When he'd taken off the Grand Magister's robes and the sable armor, his face and body had been streaming with sweat.

Erdi, of course, was running back and forth in the full sunlight, her new armor not troubling her in the slightest. She was being unreasonably chipper with me, probably because Ahtar was not speaking to her. 

Ma'dran came in after a little while with the news that Istvir had said that we had been cleared to go. Erdi's key had been determined legitimate. The assault on the Blue Palace would be commenced shortly. 

"We should get dressed," I said. "We need to get out of here."

"Nope," said Ahtar. "We're staying put. Don't you get out of that hammock." 

He handed me another bottle of mead cut three-quarters with water, and ensured that a large bowl was near me in case I elected further business. 

Then he unrolled one of the wool rugs, and stretched out with a blanket. 

"If you get sick I'm calling Sheshemarjo back in here," he warned. "And don't you dare get the shits again." My innards, thoroughly intimidated, remained quiescent.

I slept.

I fell asleep in hot humid weather. 

The breeze finally shifted as I slept, coming in from the Sea of Ghosts.

The first of the fall rains had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelian, Erdi, and Ahtar join Ma'dran's caravan, which is on its way eastward towards Winterhold. They are forced to wait, to pick up some Stormcloak wounded-- and they encounter a dragon!
> 
> ...it is not much of a dragon...


	18. Cyrelian-- That Knife Bites Deep: Hjaalmarch 1

I lay abed that morning for some time, eyes shut. 

Sentiment is outmoded in the Dominion these days; we ought instead to attend to our articles of faith. 

My aunt Elodie disagrees, somewhat. She has said that sentiment is not without its uses-- she was looking at me when she said this-- but it is a knife without guard or quillons. Use care.

Yorvik could have sent us to the Khajiit directly, but I had puffed myself up to goad him. So he had instead deferred us to Ulfric's general Istvir. Erdi had been forced to pay our ransom in traitor's coin. 

Acting-Captain Jorluf could now walk into the Blue Palace unimpeded, surround its jarl with her former guardsmen, and demand that Elisif recognize Ulfric Stormcloak as the rightful High King of Skyrim. 

Erdi had said that this would end the war. 

But Erdi had lied. 

From Ahtar's throttled fury, I knew he believed the same. Ulfric might yet get hailed as High King by a jarl of Solitude-- but not by Elisif. Even on short acquaintance, I thought the young Jarl Elisif had demonstrated impressive resolve. No, Erdi had chosen to bait a trap for Istvir and his Stormcloaks in Elisif's blood, and the Blue Palace would not witness any such peaceful surrender. Once again a decedent jarl would gaudily decorate its white marble walls and floor, and Solitude would then endure the lengthy siege of my predictions. 

Regret means nothing. 

Prayer means nothing unless coupled with right action; but still, I prayed: 

That the people who had risked themselves for me be safe, mer and man alike. 

That it be over with least loss of life and property. 

That my actions not redound to my own people's doom. 

Ahtar was asleep on his bedroll on the opposite side of the tent. I could hear him snoring lightly. I lay still, attending closely to each of his quick rough breaths. 

Use care, Elodie had said. That knife bites deep.

Of course I was woken from reverie by the sound of Erdi arguing vociferously with Ma'dran, so I had to armor myself and go make peace with the Khajiit. Erdi stormed off in high dudgeon to go make war with the water-butts.

I mollified Ma'dran by promising him he could have the Grand Justiciar's robes and vizard without payment, once we had no further need of them. I emphasized their value-- it is in the many thousands of septims. I did not mention that these items of regalia were essentially unsalable, nor that it would be a very bad day indeed for Ma'dran should the Thalmor ever discover these items in his custody. 

From the glint in his eye, Ma'dran already knew. 

No harm was meant; it would have been disrespectful in the extreme for me to point out the obvious caveats to this prince of trade.

Ma'dran wanted to know, was I feeling better? Also, what illness did I have? Was I contagious? Had I been sent here by the Stormcloaks to make all of the Khajiit sick? 

I explained to Ma'dran that I had taken a warhammer blow up under the ribs sometime back-- I mimed it for him--and things were still not quite right with me upon occasion. And of course the unseasonably warm weather, coupled with the burden of armor... Sheshemarjo had given me a few crumbs of moonsugar, and that had settled me. I would be able to get through Hjaalmarch without being a burden. No one else would become ill. 

Ma'dran suggested that I listen closely to Sheshemarjo and follow his regimen. For a Thalmor, I was reasonably pleasant. Ma'dran would regret deeply the necessity of leaving me to die in Hjaaalmarch swamp. Ma'dran would not find enjoyment in cutting my throat so that the noises of my distress would not draw the enemy. Ma'dran would-- 

Sheshemarjo came by. He ordered me to go find Lena the cook and get something to eat. 

I complied immediately.

Ahtar had stood nearby, listening. 

"Why have you taken off your vizard?" I demanded. 

"Ma'dran's tent." Ahtar ndicated the outsized structure which blocked all view of the camp from the walls and road. "You didn't tell me you got hurt." 

"Happened before I came to the city," I said, impatient. "It's hardly significant. I ran Mariel's errands all over the city, and lugged around her bins and laundry-baskets." I cut him off before he could speak again: "Have you travelled much with Khajiit? Are you familiar with them?" 

Ahtar frowned at me, but conceded the point. "Khajiit aren't allowed into the city here. Don't know what happened, but it was years back. Haven't seen much of 'em. No trouble. Ma'dran keeps his people under his thumb." 

"Well then," I said. "You and Erdi and I need to have that discussion, once she's back. With Khajiit, it's too easy to inadvertently give offense." 

Ahtar lingered, displaying worry. I took a bite of cheese to reassure him. Lena had carved a huge chunk of it off for me, and shooed me out of the way of her morning preparations. Some things about cooks are universal, no matter the species. 

Ahtar is neither physician nor mage, so no conversation on the topic of my health would be pertinent. Whatever damage had been wreaked, I could not heal it up. Still, each night as I slept my magicka renewed somewhat, and even a small trickle of it would be enough to stave off the reckoning another day. We were headed to Winterhold and its Restoration mages. 

Sheshemarjo had plenty of healing potions and moonsugar. 

I would be fine.

I took a few more bites of Eidar cheese. As soon as I swallowed it, I was finally -- even urgently-- hungry, which was sheer relief. 

Bliss. We'd had it at the Thalmor Embassy, of course. Ma'dran had the true appellation-- rather expensive. It's an alpinage, with the pretty blue veining that always reminds me of glass armor. Both rich and sharp, it should have been too much for me, but I devoured it straight down to the rind, and licked my fingers clean. 

Ahtar was still standing there. Looking at me, in a manner that would not do. Curious Khajiit were watching us. 

"Do you need something?" I asked, sharply. "Once Erdi is present, we will speak. I don't wish to repeat myself." 

I turned away. 

This was going to be a difficult conversation.

The Khajiit belong to us. 

Khajiit are true believers in the Aldmeri Dominion, and share a certain trust with us-- in their own manner, of course-- which the other client states shall never achieve. Pa'alatiin and Ne Quin-al came to the Thalmor of their own volition, requiring no supplemental guidance. 

We consult their elders regularly. Many Khajiit are Thalmor agents-- agents in truth, not the unwitting fools we handle through intermediaries. We honor their customs as fully as we expect them to honor our own. They have our full respect. In the lands Thalmor control, our Justiciars enforce that dictum with fists, when necessary. 

It is regrettably often necessary. Khajiit speak a creole pidgin and refuse to speak proper Cyrodiilic, so they are deemed ignorant. Because Khajiit do not live as settled peoples do, they are regarded as vagrants, and meet with no welcome. But the Thalmor recognize that the Khajiit are the most adaptable people of Nirn, the most fierce when provoked, and the most generous and resourceful. They are our colleagues and friends. 

One warning: while Khajiit are affectionate and often display extraordinary kindness, they are not--as we are-- burdened by sentiment. If Ma'dran found it to his advantage to inform on me to the Thalmor, he would do so. 

A Nord would find such a betrayal of trust of a comrade unthinkable. An Imperial or Breton would likely demand a high price. Even the most rigorous amongst our faithful might be given pause, no matter what the fashion is these days in Alinor. 

Ma'dran would not hesitate. The greater the danger to us, the more joy such an act would bring him. 

To Khajiit, all of life is a game: Play keenly.

I was able to draw my friends aside and advise them. I could tell they did not believe me. 

Erdi said that I was one of the most paranoid people she'd ever met. She was looking at Ahtar when she said this. 

And the look on Ahtar's face was sufficiently instructive. We did not need to speak.

Erdi amused herself throughout my little speech by poking roughly at Ahtar's side. 

Ahtar cuts a much more impressive figure in the sable armor than Ambassador Orondil ever did. The chest and waist looked odd though-- too nipped in. He looked narrower than could ever be possible. I thought it was a clever illusion spell. 

Erdi suspected some sort of non-magickal corsetry effect. She continued to prod at the sides of his cuirass to gauge its compression, until he growled and moved away from her. 

There was an edge to her fun that I didn't like. I was glad he'd stopped her. 

Before desisting, she sniffed the air, pointedly. "Why does your head smell like it's rotting?" she asked Ahtar. "Is that the fish?" She reached up to grasp a braid and he moved his head away from her reach. "Eeugh," she said. "What IS that? Is it blood?" 

Ahtar maintained a grim silence. 

I reminded Ahtar that we had admitted to the Stormcloaks that Erdi was his girlfriend. 

Erdi gave a piercing ugly laugh. 

Ahtar said two short, sharp words. He said them to me. 

Irritated, I suggested that he go find the time to let his girlfriend help him wash out his hair. A day under the vizard mask had not helped its aroma. 

Ahtar said a few more short words. 

I would have nothing to be concerned about vis a vis the Khajiit, it seemed. 

We would none of us be speaking to each other.

Lena is the Khajiiti cook. She is not from Elsweyr, but from southern Cyrodiil. 

"Is there more to eat?" I asked, and appealed to her professional skill. Sheshemarjo had already spoken to her.

Lena sat with me for some time, asking me about what I could and could not stomach. She had a lot of ideas about spices, most of which I thought were probably not a good idea. I asked her if it was good for me to be eating the moonsugar to keep myself from feeling sick. 

Lena thought this was very funny. Moonsugar is always good. Didn't Thalmor know that? 

She gave me more cheese, some hardtack, and a few cookies redolent of ginger and studded with large crystals of moonsugar. She warned me not to share the cookies with the others. Some apples as well. And another couple of water-skins filled with sek, this time with fennel in it, and some yellow spice that tasted of dust. Lena said that it would help. 

She apologized for being out of cured fish. Someone had eaten all of it. 

The soup would be ready in a few moments, moons willing, and it would be good for me if I liked it.

It was a crisp, glorious blue-sky day, a chill wind whipping the white clouds past. We could see where the rain still fell, far off in Hjaalmarch to the east and south. 

I had never seen a Khajiiti bard before, but Ji'la is skilled at drum and lute. She likes to play up the betmer act, speaking with a thicker accent than usual and pretending to grovel. I wondered how she could stand the close confinement of that cap. My ears twitched in sympathy. It would be highly inappropriate to ask, of course. 

From the look of Ji'la's worn gloves and dagger-sheath I assumed she served as Ma'dran's bodyguard.

Ji'la played for us while Ma'dran and the others began to pack up camp. There seemed to be an undertone to her playing at times. I shook my head, trying to better settle my helmet. Was it a special kind of drum? I kept feeling like I was hearing the background hum of conversation-- but none was present. My head felt odd. Pressured. I wondered if I had a headache coming on. Was this why Altmeri are advised to never touch moonsugar? If so, it was a great disappointment: I was not in the least bit intoxicated. 

Ahtar went about trying to hurry things along. 

Khajiit are masters at doing what they are told to do, and only doing what they are told to do, and in their own good time. Jog a Khajiit's elbow, and she will demand scrupulous instruction as to your wishes. No matter what the crisis, if you chivvy and harass them, they will drag their heels, and laugh at your discomfit. I let it go. If you would like a task completed, best leave it to the Khajiit's full discretion.

Why be uncomfortable? 

Khajiit see no reason to rush about and then wait.

None of the Khajiit were in any particular hurry to depart. 

I ate the first cup of the lentil soup. I had been wrong about the spices-- they were warming and comforting. Once the others were done, I ate the remainder of the soup, and Lena gave me some bread to chase the last of it about in my mug. 

I helped her wash up the remaining dishes.

Kharado sat with me for a little while. He said there was no point in packing up until the Stormcloaks had their boat and the wounded ready for us, and it was taking some while.

I asked if he'd heard any commotion up closer to the city gates. 

He said no. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Ma'dran lent me a sword of Dominion manufacture, presumably to bolster its dubious provenance. He said we would be meeting the Stormcloaks further along the road. 

I ate the hardtack. Lena gave me some more of it.

Lena and Ji'la finished packing their equipment on the horses and went aside to chat. They were joined by Ra'shansheh and myself, and we went three or four hundred yards up the road towards the rendezvous- point. 

Ahtar and Erdi stayed behind to lend further encouragement. They would learn. 

A couple of the Khajiiti warriors followed us. 

Lena and Ji'la paused to chat over their favorite hobby-- knives. 

We had almost no warning-- they can fly silently, if they so choose. 

Ra'shansheh turned and cried out--

And the dragon, wings aglow with magickal fire, dropped straight down upon us.

We all froze. Up at the camp I could hear Ahtar bellowing. Whoever was coming to us, they would be too late. 

Half a second seemed an hour; I had ample time to look my fill. 

Dragons are said to be enormous. This dragon was barely the size of a large tent. 

Dragons are said to attack ferociously. This dragon settled down couchant and looked us over, puzzled. Its gaze swept past the Khajiit and focused on me. 

Me? What does some Nord beast want with an Altmer? 

It said a Word, and the shape of that Word was so huge that my ears did not hear it as sound; it was like a vast wave in the air-- a painful roar. In the silence after it, the pressure in my head increased. 

Ji'la scream-snarled a response, and the Khajiit engaged.

I ran to the dragon, drawing my sword, and watched in awe as Ji'la sliced into it half-a-dozen times, still in full sustained war-cry. Her puny weapon laid open its face in long gashes. Still, the dragon ignored her, craning its head up out of her reach, still seeking to get a better view of me. 

Dragons are said to be elegant creatures, graceful in flight...and this dragon waddled and hopped backwards like a clumsy housecat, attempting to disengage more of itself from Ji'la's reach. Somehow it managed to maintain eye contact with me and spoke the same incomprehensible Word-- huge. Indescribably so. We all staggered under the force of it, Ra'shansheh driven to his knees. 

I knew that I must respond in kind to this mythic beast, but I could muster nothing. 

The dragon shook its head--evidently it thought me a fool, and Ji'la no more than an annoyance. Turning, it flopped back downhill a few steps and beat its wings to get aloft, incidentally wing-clipping Ji'la into the brush. 

After two failed attempts, it gained the air, ascending skywards. 

At least, that was its intent. 

The Stormcloaks had come out of the warcamp and down off the walls-- I could hear them howling their own war-cries, and see the grey shimmer of the arrows in flight. The dragon, injured, flap-fluttered down by the side of the road, Yorvik's men running towards it. It took the air again briefly, seeking to escape, and then fell. We lost it from sight down the curve of the road.

I could not see what became of it.

Everyone at the Khajiit camp had bolted out to the road. They stood watching, mouths agape. 

Ma'dran recovered even before Ji'la could finish brushing herself off. He snapped orders. Time for the Khajiit to depart. In under a minute, they were ready to go. Thankfully their horses were--somehow--unpanicked. I rode one up to the bridge and handed it off to Ma'dran. 

Ma'dran threw Ahtar the mask and robes. We would be riding along the cliff face that runs atop the dock area of Solitude, in the shadow of the arch. Ahtar would need to once more cover his face.

Ahtar approved this route, because it led us both below and above many guards with bows. This was the same route he had decried earlier, for the same reasons. 

A dragon would have a harder time getting at us; if it tried, the grey geese would fly again.

We kept as close to the cliff walls as we might, keeping an eye above. 

I motioned Ahtar and Erdi along; I would take the rear. 

Truthfully I did not want them to see how I was walking; the pressure in my head was increasing and it was getting hard to see. From behind I could hear battle-yells become loud cheering.

The rushing noise magnified ten thousandfold and it was take a knee, or fall down. I lowered my head for a long moment. And then the noise broke. Stillness. My head was ringing. It no longer hurt. 

Ahtar was looking back at me. I pretended to fiddle with my left boot. Within a few seconds I had recovered. 

I hustled to catch up.

We took the road which leads from Solitude's main gate to its harbor gate, up over the East Empire dockyard. Below us the Solitude docks sat mostly empty, with only the dragon-helmed Stormcloak longships visible. I could not make out where the blockade was. It must be further out. 

"Where were you?" said Ahtar. 

"Rock," I said, gesturing at my boot. "Did you hear that noise?" I asked. 

He and everyone else seemed to have been unafflicted by that curious pressure. 

"All that yelling?" said Ahtar. "Bet they killed that dragon."

There was voluble discussion amongst the Khajiit as we walked along. 

Ma'dran's tail was flicking in annoyance.

Ra'zhinda disagreed with Ma'dran about how we should go to Hjaalmarch.

Ra'zhinda said that she had no trust for the Stormcloaks-- how did we know that we were going to get where we were going? Ra'zhinda thought Stormcloaks would prefer to see all Khajiit at the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts. Ra'zhinda preferred a situation with guarantees. Better to risk another dragon and wait till nightfall, so that the moonpath would be active. 

I looked over to see how Ma'dran reacted to this. Ra'zhinda fell silent. I do not think that it had occurred to them that I have might have some Ta'agra. 

"If this one may enquire--how reliable is the path tonight?" I asked. We were just past the double-full moon. 

"No," said Ma'dran. "We will not be taking the moonpaths. Not with so many outsiders. Make no mistake, Khajiit will be paid for the escort to Dawnstar. Ma'dran has said that these injured Stormcloaks will be taken there, and so it will be."

The Stormcloak boat was waiting for us, as promised, at the foot of the arch. Their wounded men were aboard. 

Ma'dran ordered his people aboard. They began to cooperate. In their own time. 

Sheshemarjo decried the condition the wounded men were in, and demanded a little time to see to them. 

The helmsman agreed that he would prefer to wait a couple of hours-- the tidal variation in the Karth outlet is considerable, and it would be much less difficult to navigate a little later.

The Khajiit chose to wait on the shore till Sheshemarjo was ready to go. 

Ahtar and Erdi had gone off to the side, bickering.

"And I told you to let it go!" Erdi snapped. "I've heard what you say--'I'm with the Empire because they pay me!,'" she mimicked, savagely. "So you did do your damned job, didn't you? So where's the Empire? Did they come help you? Your friend Aldis left you on the street!" 

He said something inaudible. 

"Yeah? I saw you cozying up to that Stormcloak friend of yours-- don't you think you're any better than me. There's your loyalty. So don't go on about how I'm the one who's so--Only difference is I had something they wanted, and you didn't!" 

Erdi stopped as I approached. 

Ahtar turned to glare at me. 

I argued with both of them for a time, together and separately. Each refused to back down.

Finally I decreed that the two of them were just going to have to work it out. 

I thought that Erdi, at least, had accomplished her betrayal towards some sensible purpose. 

As for myself, I had betrayed this good city for no better reason than to fodder my own boastful pride. I must own that sentiment is not my only failing. What had I been seeking? Yorvik's approval? Why preen myself for some Nord who hates me and all my kind? I am a child and a fool. 

No sense dwelling further on it; it was all done now, and Ahtar righteously angry at both of us. 

I suspected also that his temper was not soothed for being once more swaddled in the Ambassador's heavy robes and mask.

I gave up trying to use reason and directed Ahtar away to stand with Ra'zhinda, who was on rear guard duty. 

For myself I stood alone, trying to roll the shapes of the dragon-Word over. I was intensely reluctant to vocalize it. I did not like the feel of it in my mouth. Runes of summoning, words of power, cantrips and keyed mnemonics-- on Alinor, even a non-mage has to be taught something of these, even if it is just enough to know what not to fool with. While this dragon-Word was not of itself magickal, it lay weighty on my tongue and in my mind. So I gave it no breath, and practiced silently. 

Erdi wanted to know what was wrong with me.

I assured her that I was well. I was thinking of dragons. 

She nodded. Even with all of six arrows, she was watching the sky, alert. 

Sheshemarjo finished with his patients and called us to the boat, and we embarked.

We sailed straight across towards the marsh, and then along it, looking for a good landing-spot. 

I got a close look at the boat--Stormcloak boats are shallow-keel, meant for inland waterways. They would not do so well on the high seas, but they can go where Imperial ships cannot.

Despite Ra'zhinda's predictions, the Stormcloak helmsman dropped us off onto a little peninsula of Hjaalmarch without incident. 

Had Ahtar and Erdi and I chosen to run, we would have to get to the other side of Dragon Bridge via the mountainside, staying clear of the Stormcloak-occupied road. There is no other safe way to traverse the Karth river, if one is not Khajiit, for its currents are treacherous and deep. If we wanted to avoid the well-guarded Dragon Bridge, we'd have to go much further up the mountain, dodging Stormcloak patrols until we crossed back northward into the Karth's canyons. Forsworn lurk there, and worse. I had stayed out of those places during my time in the wild. We would have had to exercise great caution. 

Travel with the Khajiit had gotten us to northern Hjaalmarch already. We had saved days-- possibly weeks-- of time.

I took a last look back at the city. The lights of the Blue Palace shone down unchanged. 

Erdi was the last to disembark. I handed her down from the boat. Ahtar crowded next to us and looked up over her shoulder. There wasn't much room for us to stand at the verge of the water, and we were all trying to keep out of the way of the burdened Khajiit.

The Stormcloak boat glided away serenely. 

Erdi's anxious face belied her cheery words: "Nothing seems to be on fire." 

"Yeah?" said Ahtar, greatly offended. "No thanks to you." 

I attempted with marginal success to step on his foot, and he subsided. We all stood for a long moment looking up at the city, as though its status might imminently change. 

Eventually Ahtar made a noise of discontent and tugged his hem loose, which jostled me aside. 

"Finally," he said, freeing his elbows with a ripping noise. 

He peeled off the mask and hood as well, tossing all of it down into the sandy muck. Despite myself, I had to hold my breath. Another day in the heat under the mask had not improved his aroma. 

"Eew," said Erdi to him, nose wrinkled. "You need to do something about that hair. I'm sure the water here isn't too mucky. Why don't you--" 

Ahtar ignored her and set out after the Khajiit, leaving Erdi to scrabble about in the weeds for the vizard mask and robes.

I followed Ahtar, moving as quickly as I could, and got ahead to stand in front of him. He stopped. 

"Shut up and get out of my face," he said, still hot with anger.

"You wanted your life," I said. "Or maybe you didn't, but she bought it for you with every coin she had. Complaining seems rather churlish." He tried to dodge me and I moved with him, continuing to impede his path.

"Can't abide it," he said curtly. "Cheerful, after what she did. I despise traitors. Never want to speak to her again. She's on her own." 

"So what will you do?" I demanded. "Leave her here? With nothing?" I followed him as he stalked off. "She's only here because of you!" Erdi'd had no intent to leave the Blue Palace before I told her of the Haafingar guard hunting Ahtar through the streets. It had spurred her to leave. She didn't trust that Ahtar would leave the city absent her oversight.

I seized Ahtar's arm, and he rounded on me. I froze. He can be that alarming. All he did was brush me off: "Thought you said you couldn't touch me. So--don't." 

"Not fair," I said, and took another side-step to block him. "Like it or not, you will listen to me." 

He continued to be mulish. 

"I can live in the wild," I said. "I've done it before, even through the winter here. I can get to the mage's college. I choose to be here for the sake of your company, not my own survival." A twinge in my belly gave that the lie, but I continued: "You seem able enough. I presume there is a great demand, just now, for fighting men?" Because Erdi and I were so much dead weight to Ma'dran's caravan, but Ahtar's skills were sorely needed. "But this caravan next stop is at the wharves of Dawnstar. What will she do there, with no money and no property, and only her little knife?"

And now that I have seen it, I shudder to think about it, really. It is a rough place. Ahtar averted his gaze. 

"It may be," I said, breathing carefully to manage the re-awakening pain, "that I cannot help her. What then for her?" 

We were silent. 

I could hear Ma'dran still giving orders to his Khajiit, and the low cries of one of the wounded, as the caravan and its carts and horses and bales sorted itself into marching order. Erdi skittered awkwardly around us and headed up towards the horses, still carrying Ahtar's discards. 

"So she valued your life more than her honor?" I said, more quietly. "Is that what chafes you?" 

Ahtar muttered something under his breath. 

"Do you really think---" I used that schoolmaster's voice--it was so calming "-- that Erdi planned this betrayal from the outset?" I asked. "She did have that key." 

"Nah," said Ahtar. "I don't think so. Not her way." He grimaced. "Erdi's flighty. Makes all her decisions on impulse. If she woulda thought about it she coulda given that key up sooner for a better deal. I ..." He subsided. "Shouldn't blame her, I guess," he said more contritely. "Can't expect--" 

I did not like this concession any better. 

"Is she your friend?" I demanded, and Ahtar started, as if I had slapped him. Brutally, I overrode his response: "Or is she your little pet?" My venom surprised even me: "Do you think this was such an easy thing for her? How dare you so disregard her choice!--as if she were no thinking being. Should I so dismiss my horse if it refused a fence, ere I had surveyed the ground?" I frowned at him. "She knows the lay of things in the Blue Palace more so than you or I. Trust better her judgment." 

This heartfelt little speech did not see the effect I had wished, as that damnable pain chose its moment well, and knifed through me again, blinding me as my vision whitened. My eyes closed. I had to stand absolutely still. 

Ahtar remained just long enough to ascertain that my beratement of him had ceased. I heard him walk away. 

When I could move again, I made my slow way back up towards the Khajiit.

As the sun began to set, we trekked deeper into the marsh. 

The Khajiit set up a cold camp out of view of the shore. Lena had several of them catching fish for her. She cleaned them quickly, rubbed them with salt and sugar and hung them up in the night air. 

I could feel the sickness was coming on again, in the wake of the pain's weakness, so ate the cookies. Moonsugar is by no means a panacea, but it does sort out digestive complaints. I was so tired. 

I helped set up camp till my legs threatened to give, and I sat. 

If Ma'dran wanted to cut my throat and weigh my body down with rocks in the swamp, so be it. If he wanted to strip out my bloated guts, so that my body would not inconveniently float, that was fine too. 

I drew my knees up. 

I hurt.

Ahtar came and pulled me up by the hand and took me back to Sheshemarjo, demanding another healing potion. Sheshemarjo wanted to argue, but Ma'dran snarled at him, so it was given to me, together with another dose of the moon-sugar. 

Ahtar made me drink as much of it as I could, together with more water-and-mead. I hoped the Khajiit weren't paying attention to the way his palm rubbed the back of my neck in a not-exactly-fraternal manner. I was too exhausted to move away. Making a fuss over it would be worse than no reaction. 

Erdi asked me several frantic questions which I was too worn out to answer. 

Finally Ahtar told her to leave me alone. 

He helped me up again and took me to the tent, dealing with the ties and buckles; my clumsy hands failed to do it. 

"Sorry I left you there," he said, contrite. "Didn't see you were took sick. Thought you were just mad." 

He freed a buckle-tongue from where it had burrowed into my gambeson, and lifted my cuirass free. Belt and cuisses were next; he took his leisurely time. This would have been far more enjoyable under better circumstance. As it was I wished only to lie down and die. 

I ceded the hammock for the ground, and he made a pallet for me, a bedroll wrapped around a padding of straw. He wrapped a blanket about me-- I was shivering-- and crouched down next to me, his voice pitched for my ears alone. 

"I heard you," he said quietly, his voice pitched low for me alone. "I will try, but-" He was genuinely baffled. 

It was full dark, and we were within the tent. No one could see us. I ran my fingers down his scarred wrist to his broad hard-calloused palm, and took his hand, to feel the connection between us. It was still there. We could afford a moment. A breath or three. 

Out by the fire a Khajiit said something and laughed. Was that unseemly speculation? We had no more time. 

"Grant her the same consideration you would give me," I said. "Or yourself. You refused to go without us. I had no need to return for you, and I did. Why should she not do the same?"

I could feel it, the pang that ran through him. He nodded, and left. 

Of course, once he was gone I could not sleep, and I rolled about restlessly, until at last I moved the tent flap so that I could see what was going on out by the fire.

Ma'dran had posted several guards, and had warned the rest of us not to go afield at night: the marsh is a dangerous place. He did decree one exemption, which I heard clearly even as far away as my bed; Ahtar was to go and wash. 

Kharado and Ji'la convinced Ahtar that his hair was not a lost cause, so he did not cut all of his braids off. When I finally fell asleep, Ahtar was still sitting in the dim light of the moons, Kharado working on one side of him and Ji'la on the other. I could see only his silhouette; even so his posture reminded me of a disgruntled pony being readied for show. 

For all I know he took the next guard shift; I did not hear him come in. Erdi laid her pallet beside mine, and I listened to her gentle little snores, taking comfort in her company until I slept. It was good to not be alone.

I woke very late the next morning-- it was nearly noon!

Ma'dran had ordered that I be left to rest. I felt better. 

Sheshemarjo was still busy with the wounded. One of the men might lose his leg, he thought. I brought him some hot rags and herbs from Lena and helped him clean and re-dress the wounds. He said I had good hands for the task. The Stormcloak was easier with me than with the far more alien Khajiit, perhaps mistaking me for human. He was that fevered. 

I gave him a tiny bit of healing; all I had. I do not think it helped. 

The day was warm, so warm that once Sheshemarjo finished, Lena banked the cookfire. We would be here another night. 

When the scout patrol returned, Ma'dran gave instructions. There were eleven of us more or less capable of fighting. Seven of us, Ahtar, Erdi, Kharado, Ra'shansheh, Omir, Ra'zhinda and myself, were to alternate between guard duty and scout duty. Ji'la, Veleda, Ma'dran, and the least-wounded Stormcloak were to remain at camp and serve as the last resort.

I could see the Khajiit looking at each other as these plans were discussed. The scouts would go out a mile or so at a time, and come back to report at specified intervals. Guards would remain within fifty yards or so of camp.

I didn't think that Ahtar or Erdi or myself would be drawing cushy guard duty.

My instincts proved well-founded. 

Ma'dran commented that since we three seemed to hold each other in such great sentiment--there had been more squabbling--we would do a good job looking out for each other in the swamp. 

Ma'dran has no high regard for our abilities. 

Or perhaps Ma'dran simply wanted a peaceful camp.


	19. Cyrelian-Uncharted Territory: Hjaalmarch 2

Khajiit do not normally take this route through Hjaalmarch. Few do. There are no settlements here, where what seems solid ground becomes fluctuant with each passing squall. Ma'dran warned us that we were heading into uncharted territory and to take utmost care. It would be easy to lose one's way or one's footing in the mire and be lost. 

This initial scout group was larger than it would be later and we ranged further. After today, we would split into twos and threes and report separately. Ma'dran wanted his Khajiit to report on our abilities in the brush before he trusted us with more.

Lena came ahead with us for a little while to gather herbs and mushrooms. She said there were plenty of things worth eating in the swamp, and told us to let her know if we spotted any mudcrabs or clams.

She sniffed the air and said that the weather would be changing soon.

I spotted a bandit den, but we found it to be deserted.

The fugitive breeze kept switching quarters, and whenever it gusted from the northeast it was frankly cold. Mist was beginning to rise up from the shallow water.

We found a Nordic ruin. Even I could smell the rank scent of a sabre cat den near. We did not approach, and Ra'zhinda, Erdi, and Lena went back for the other Khajiit scouts. 

Ra'shansheh suddenly motioned us back.

A sabre cat had seen us and was circling to pounce. 

I had stayed well clear of these beasts during my time in the wild. One person alone cannot hunt them easily, and you are a long time dying if you fail. Their wounds are poison.

Ra'shansheh warned those of us with short weapons to stay back. He pitched in with glee.

Omir yelled to look out-- there was more than one.

Ahtar engaged it while we were dealing with the other.

We killed it and looked around the area for awhile, the Khajiit sniffing the air. They found another, hiding and waiting to catch us off-guard. In total there were three juvenile males that we slaughtered. Omir didn't think that there were any other cats or kits nearby. Still, we did not linger. 

I had never seen beasts with such clever tactics. I hate killing sabre cats, I detest it. I despise it. They are beautiful, intelligent creatures that deserve to live just as we do. It is a pity that we must consider them vermin, because they breed so very fast, and become so aggressive in defending their territory. And they intrude on our settlements. I loathe killing them. I rather thought these hunters deserved a pyre, and I said so. 

Omir looked at me askance. 

I could not read Ahtar's face, not quite. 

But I understood. 

I am too ridden with sentiment. 

The Khajiit celebrated their kill, and took the pelts, of course.

Ahtar approached, flicking the blood off his sword. He wanted to know how I was doing, since I was still standing with my hands on my knees getting my breath. 

"All right," I said, and straightened after a few moments. "I don't think I'm used to all this exertion just yet." 

My heart was slamming in my chest; I had gotten a few good hits in and then become almost useless for the rest of the fight. What in Oblivion was wrong with me? 

After a few more minutes we were on our way. 

Omir brought the raw pelts and the news back to the camp. In total we scouted about four miles ahead of the caravan before it started raining in earnest and we returned to Ma'dran. 

Ra'zhinda advised Ma'dran that Erdi had also passed muster. They hadn't had nearly as much excitement. 

Due to the rains, Ma'dran wanted to abandon the Stormcloak carts and take the wounded by horse; and the man who was worst off by litter. The caravan would not be moving fast as it was, and he wanted to be able to retreat into the marshes as best he could given the wet. Carts do not do well in this morass. He still believed there would be trouble along the beaches. 

Camp was a good half-mile off shore. 

I woke in the night again with the pain, and it was terrifying, but Erdi went through her pack to find the rest of yesterday's healing potion for me, and it subsided.

It continued to rain heavily and I slept like the dead.

Kharado watched the beach that night. He reported that there had been several large ships that passed by--from his description Imperial, and headed toward Solitude.

From whence? Morrowind? 

Kharado had not been able to see well enough through the rain. He could not share enough details for me to identify any particular fleet. He did not believe these had been trading-ships, and I did not either.

In the morning Erdi and I were sent out alone to check the highland area to our north and east. 

Ahtar had drawn guard duty.

"I can't stand this," Erdi said, at length. "He won't talk to me." 

"He'll get past it," I said, a little short. I was more concerned about what might be over the next ridge. I could swear that I had heard men talking. Perhaps it was the creatures in the marsh? Though it was warm now in the sun, the frogs and cicadas had been much subdued since last night's cold rain. I kept glancing upward. No dragons. 

"I didn't give them Solitude," said Erdi more quietly. "At least, I hope I didn't. I meant to give them death. Ahtar won't believe me. Says it's just a story and that I'm a little fool." 

"How so?" I asked.

She drew breath: "Do you remember what I said, that day when you ran into me as I was going in to clean the old part of the palace and you asked if you could come in so we could, ah--" 

Further our acquaintance. 

My neck and ears went hot and I immediately removed my gaze to the far horizon. 

We had flirted quite a lot back and forth at that time. 

I remembered that day-- chilly, with thick-falling wet snow from iron-gray skies. I didn't even have the shelter of my cloak, as I was in armor instead of my duty blacks, serving as honor guard for Orondil at the quarterly moot-day-- he took pity on me and let me wait inside, saying he would be busy the whole afternoon till evening court. I was left to kick my heels in the public rooms. The sun had emerged and shone warmly through the small-paned glass; I recall very clearly the soft glow of Erdi's skin in the late-afternoon light; her sweep of raven hair. She had been struggling with an armload of rags and cleaning implements, and I had held open a heavy door so she could get through. 

"You said-- 'It's scary in there!' and said you would get in trouble," I recounted. "And then you slammed the door right in my face. I thought I had... Mm. Overstepped."

"Oh! I wondered why--" Erdi was embarrassed. 

"I.. ehm.. would like to apologize for any inappropriate remarks--" I said. 

"I thought--" she stopped herself. She drew her hand back from her face. We looked at each other. 

This was intriguing. I knew better than to pursue it. 

"Nothing to do with you," I assured her. "The... situation"-- I had told her a little bit---"grew intolerable. I had to leave the Embassy. Suddenly. I wish I could have told you." I felt the loneliness of that time keenly; Erdi must have sensed it. She was holding my hand now, and patting it. 

It isn't quite the same, in gauntlets. 

"It's all right," she said. "I just shut the door on you because I couldn't risk you coming inside. Too dangerous. And it was Falk's order." 

"Dangerous," I repeated, teasing just a little. "You were dressed to do battle, but only with cobwebs, I think." I pulled off helmet and gauntlets and dropped them, and helped her with her helm. 

"Mhm," she said, and loosened her gambeson collar, not in any sort of playful manner. 

"Whatever's in there is evil," she said, flatly. "And it doesn't like armed men. You could have gone in there but you wouldn't have come back out. Can I have some of that stuff you're drinking?" 

I handed it over. "Go on," I said.

"Ahtar just thinks I'm repeating stupid childrens' stories about 'the haunted Pelagius wing' but I've seen it," she said. "The thing that's in there. It's not even the worst thing that's in there, I think." She drank and grimaced, handing it back. 

"That couldn't be," I said. "Captain Aldis would never allow a threat like that so close to the throne. Nor would Steward Firebeard. And he's the one specifically sent you in there to clean, right?" 

"Falk did," she said. "He also warned me-- Don't touch a thing. Get the big cobwebs and the dust up. That way from the courtyard the whole place just looks like yet another empty reception room."

I nodded, to show I understood. Many rooms in a palace are little-used. Household staff could descend imminently to fit them for re-use by some emissary or for some occasion. Regular patrols could be expected. Any ill-doers would not linger. An entire wing of a palace obviously abandoned to thick dust and cobwebs? Security risk. 

Erdi took a breath: "One minute I was sweeping down the hall windows, and the next I was... I was in this barren wood. Wandering. Endlessly." She hesitated, looking at me. 

I took care to display no judgment. 

"So many thickets. Dead trees and bushes, but the -- why?" Erdi said, her voice rising sharply. A chill ran up my spine. She was there again, in her mind. "Why are the butterflies so...so horrible Clouds of them!" I touched Erdi's face to waken her and she blinked, waking to the present again. Her skin was too cool. 

"Go on," I said. 

"I couldn't see or breathe and that mist! Choking me." She shuddered all over. "It felt like I was there a year. And I kept hearing things in the distance. I kept having to run away from these bug things...Monsters. And laughter." 

"Do you think you fainted and then slept?" I asked. "It sounds like you fell into nightmare." 

"I.. I don't think so," she said, twisting her hands against each other. "My clothes got all messed up, and I had bruises and scratches and blisters, later. Burrs in my socks. You don't get those from dreams." 

"How did you get out?" I asked. 

"I got so exhausted," she muttered, ashamed. "Bones. So many bones in some of the places I wandered. I got so tired from being so scared. I gave up. I just sat down and yelled 'Let me die!' over and over again." Erdi's lip was trembling.

"There was a man." she said. "A man who made no sense. Like nothing he said would ever make any sense. He had this purple suit on, with sequins and beetle-shell spangles. And he said something like--" 

She shook her head, straining for the memory. "It was so important! I could say it by heart, all of it. He did something to make me! And now I can't... I can't..." Her eyes had gone the color of dusk, unearthly against the pallor of her skin. She was seeing something before her again, but it was not me. 

Now I was the one holding her hands. Her pauldron was jabbing into my ribs, and I turned her around bodily, holding her in the circle of my arms, facing away from me so that my cuirass wouldn't grind into her face. 

"It's all right," I consoled, petting the damp strands of hair away from her cheeks as she sobbed.

Erdi cries less often, I think, than I do. Her life has never admitted such luxuries. She shook against me with remembered terror. 

"I hope you're having a good time, mortal," she rasped, in a voice not quite her own. 

I shuddered myself, chilled. It was almost as if something else spoke through her. 

"I would threaten to eat your brain right up, but why would I do that, when the rest of you is so delicious? Oh, don't you look at me like that. You'd prefer the attentions of that bitch tuft-hunter? Would you? Fine! Go have dealings with her! Or...don't you think you'll look better without your eyes plucked from your head, my sweet? Mm? I promise I'm better company. Can I tempt you to come have tea? Wouldn't that be fun? I'm booked up at present, but what about the second Loredas in Frostfall-- shall I calendar it in?" 

Erdi gasped, swaying. She was back to herself again, mostly. 

"What did you do?" I asked. 

"I cried and asked for him to let me go," she admitted. So--"You say you want to experience the dusty road? Enjoy!" 

I pulled Erdi even closer to me. She was shivering all over.

"I had bruises on my knees and elbows where he threw me out." she said. "All the dust and cobwebs were back, too--it was like I had never swept. And then there was a different kind of laughter--a woman's evil laughter. It was so...perverse. I don't... I don't know why it sounded so wrong." 

I was a little shaky too, at what had just happened and the depth of her fear. I continued to stroke her hair and face, since that was all of her that I could reach. Erdi leaned against me, resting her head back against my chest, eyes closed. Eventually she calmed. 

"You think I'm telling stories too," she murmured. I wiped her cheeks again and rubbed under her jaw, to soothe her.

"I...no--It sounds like you fell through into another realm," I said, after a little while, as she calmed. "Because that sounds like a daedric realm. Maybe there's even an old Oblivion gate there someplace. Did you report this to anybody?" 

Erdi shrugged her shoulders. Her armor pressed and creaked against mine. I didn't want her to move. 

"Una saw me coming out of there," she murmured. "She took me in the back and helped get me cleaned up and gave me another dress." She sighed. 

My thumb was moving against her lips. I needed to stop this. 

"But later she said I was a useless little slut who'd fallen asleep after-- you know-- in some back hallway," Erdi said, as if half-dreaming. She tilted her head back to look up at me, through her eyelashes.

I stood very still. After awhile I cleared my throat.

"Una went around later saying that she'd seen a ghost in that wing," Erdi said. "Every time something happens that she doesn't like she gets reminded of it somehow. She gets all faint. She has to go sit down in the kitchen to calm herself," she said sadly. "Odar gives her boiled creme treats and hot tea." 

I made a scornful noise.

After a little time-- this was very pleasant, standing with her in the sun, even with my hands now safely kept to myself--"No guarantee that it will happen to Jorluf's men," I said. 

"I talked to Stentor later," she said quietly. "One person can go in there, to clean or check a door handle. Checking a keyhole-- that should be relatively safe.... I told them to send someone in servants' clothes. Istvir laughed and said he'd have Jorluf send that damned storyteller's girl." 

"Mm," I agreed. Yes, the arrogant Stormcloak general would've given such an order. Probably some unfortunate apprentice from the Bard's College. 

"Touch anything there-- the silver cups, the bottles of wine-- that's very bad," Erdi said. "It may have been what happened to me. Stentor said High King Stavan had half a hundred men go in with axes, ten and then twenty at a time. None ever returned." 

She turned her gauntlets over in her hand. "They've lost maids in there before. I guess Falk thought I was expendable." 

"Never," I said. 

I got a woeful little smile. 

We went on.

A mile or so onward, we found a small Imperial camp.

Ma'dran had instructed to avoid these if we could, and to cause no trouble with the sentries if we couldn't. The Khajiit were short on trading-goods and heavy on cash, and he did not want to argue with them over the convalescent Stormcloaks. 

Since they had spotted us, we went up and spoke to the sergeant, and explained the situation. 

"Heh," said the sergeant. He was dark-skinned, spare, sharp-faced. Nibenese. "Never heard of Khajiit without nothin' to sell. You moving troops through?" 

He seemed good-humored and he was wearing a Kynareth necklet, so I thought I'd take a chance. 

"Of course," I admitted, with a sheepish grin. "Dozens. Dangerous heretics one and all, headed on pilgrimage to some squalid four-goat port village..." 

"Dawnstar," supplied Erdi.

"Yes, thank you. Dawnstar." I said absently. "You'll see 'em. Helmets with the .. you know," I mimed horns. "Great big amulets, smelly furs"-- it was getting rather warm again--"axes, all that." 

The sergeant snorted, but my attempts at humor were mostly wasted; his attention was all for Erdi. 

"Yes, miss?" he said, smiling at her. 

"He's being funny," she said, taking off her helmet and tossing her hair to free it from the neck of her armor. "We've got four or five Stormcloak wounded who the khajiit're dropping off to their kin. Depends how many make it," Erdi said. "At least one of them looks pretty bad. He's gonna die." 

"So I guess you're all noncombatants," said the sergeant, still not looking at me. 

"Hope so!" said Erdi cheerily, and laughed. 

Some of the other soldiers had drifted up to ogle her. 

"Did you all see all those ships last night?" I asked, prompting a more serious discussion. 

Erdi and I went back on our way, an Imperial scout or two heading off down our backtrail. Assuming we had been truthful with the Imperials, their sergeant said, the Khajiit caravan would be left alone.

These Imperials did not have a mage with them, or any sort of healer at all. I thought, due to our discussion of the wounded, that it had been a reasonable question to ask. 

But I saw Erdi frowning at me. 

I would be fine.

We traversed many brackish pools as the ground itself grew sandier and drier towards Dawnstar. The groundcover had thinned out considerably by the time we reached the northern shores of Hjaalmarch.

The mists rise and drift in billows from the Sea of Ghosts. Aptly named.

Close to sunset, Erdi and I found the wreck of a large Imperial ship. We sat nearby and listened as long as we dared, but there was nothing to hear but the surf and the doleful cry of birds. 

"I don't see any bodies," Erdi said, doubtfully. 

"Sails are gone, and the masts unstepped," I said. "Boats and canvas are gone, too-- and I think most of the provisioning is gone from the deck." I thought it was likely that the Imperials had been here. Erdi thought it was pirates. 

"I'll go in," I said finally. "I don't want to be out here this close to dark without knowing what's in there. Can you swim?" 

"No," she said. "Not well enough to go in that water." 

"Good to know," I said. "Hide someplace and keep watch for trouble. If I don't come back here in under an hour, go back to the caravan. Don't come looking."

I took off my gauntlets and began to unfasten my armor, preparing to pull it apart from its mail and padding, so that I could redon the portions of it which are useful in the water. 

"What're you doing that for?" asked Erdi, so I explained: 

Moonstone armor is special-- it was developed for maritime operations.

This armor flexes with one's movement and does not rust. It's also lightweight as compared to the mail and the padding generally worn under it. One can swim in it, if the mail and padding is removed. Its pauldrons and collar are somewhat buoyant, making it no effort to tread water; and there is a helpful charm attached which needs only the barest spark of magicka to activate.

In this capacity, the armor still provides some protection against missiles, magebolts, and weapon-strikes-- though the coverage of full armor is much preferable whenever possible. But few missiles and sword-thrusts strike true under water. 

The water itself is the true killer.

The water-- this is the Sea of Ghosts at its warmest-- was still far too cold to be borne. I had to eke out a small amount of magicka to spark the armor's protection against losing all my heat. Else this swim would have become dangerous to me in bare heartbeats.

There was nothing in the hold area, just floating barrels and bags of ruined goods.

I swam about looking, but there was almost nothing to see. I did not see any dead.

I had to be more careful coming towards the stairs, so I would not be smashed between barrels and floating trash.

The pauldrons-and-collar is awkward whilst climbing; as I heard no signs of life, I stashed it and went through the rest of the ship as quickly as I dared.

There was little to see. 

I found a lone body, a man who had evidently fallen through a hole in the top deck. He wasn't an Imperial sailor or soldier-- and there was an odd tattoo on his face and neck.

I went up top just as it began to rain again.

There were no ships approaching from the east. 

I hurried as the sun lowered. It would get cold quickly now.

I could see nothing across the bay towards Solitude, either.

Nothing.

I saw movement behind a crate--

-but it was only a baby mudcrab. It scuttled off.

I retrieved my collar-and-pauldrons and came back to Erdi. There was not much worth recovering on that ship.

"Omir was here and gone," Erdi reported. "Someone else is coming up here with a tent, for us to watch the shore tonight. Ma'dran is keeping the others back away from the beach." 

She was still despondent. We sat and watched the empty ship rock with the waves, the only sounds that of the surf and a lone errant bird.

It rained harder. We had nowhere to take shelter, so we sat in it, Erdi pressed against me for my armor's warmth, until its charm gave out. She stayed put.

Ahtar came to us before full dark with a packhorse and some equipment, saying that the Khajiit were already settled in for the night. In the mornng Ma'dran would have Kharado and Ra'zhinda relieve us. 

I was glad to see him, even if he were still somewhat tight-lipped and cross. Erdi and I were both of us soaking wet and it would have been a most uncomfortable walk to camp. 

Ahtar had brought wool blankets, kept dry by the oiled leather of the saddlebag. I stripped to the skin, crawled into them, and subsided immediately into sleep. 

It was close quarters in the tent and it warmed quickly, the air humid. 

After a time I heard Ahtar and Erdi talking together, quietly. 

The rain slowed and stopped.

Well past midnight, Ahtar woke us. 

There were ships.


	20. Cyrelian--Inconvenient Family: Hjaalmarch 3

When I emerged from the tent, I saw Stormcloak boats running along the coast towards Dawnstar, with larger Imperial ships visible much further out, at the edge of the horizon.

The Imperial ships stood well off the coast and soon vanished from sight. 

The Stormcloak ships navigated through the sandbar-laden waters with ease. They did not stop or slow down. 

So much for sleep. We returned to the tent and our guard-shifts, one of us watching whilst the other two dozed.

Towards dawn another convoy came through. 

We watched from cover as the Stormcloak longboats sailed by.

The boats sailed close enough to shore that I could make out where they were from-- Dawnstar markings-- and how many men were on their decks--hardly any. Why were the Stormcloaks crewing so many empty boats to Haafingar? 

We had no answers yet, but I thought it a hopeful sign. 

We could not go too far from the beach at present, as the tent and blankets were too sodden to be packed up. 

We would be here till our relief arrived, mid-morning at the least.

Ahtar walked down to look over the crushed hulk that had once been a proud ship. He was gone a little time. I did not intrude. 

Instead I laid out the blankets over the tall grass. 

Erdi took the horse to water and filled our skins again. She returned without the horse, to say that the Khajiit were only a few miles behind us, but they would be passing by out of sight of the beach due to our news. The three of us were to move onward the moment we were relieved. Ma'dran was severely annoyed: the caravan was moving at a snail's pace due to the worst-injured man.

"It's the Brinehammer," reported Ahtar, when he came back to us, shaken. "Stripped clean. Pray Julianos such a fate never visits you." 

I knew what Ahtar was thinking of: Jala. 

We had put Ahtar's wife on a ship headed towards the western coast of Cyrodiil, believing it safer for her than Solitude. I knew he rued that decision. And, while he'd accepted my explanation as to what had happened to the Solitude Lighthouse, acceptance is not blind trust: 

"Did that fool of yours tell you who the lizard hired to put out the lighthouse fire?" Ahtar asked, watching me closely. "Jaree-Ra wouldn't get his own hands dirty." His expression had altered to the gargoyle's mask of taut malice: "Maybe I'll run into the guy who did it. Like to talk to him about it." With a two-handed long-handled axe, no doubt. 

"All I got for a description was um-- one of those incomprehensible old Nordic names," I reported. "Gilgondoron wasn't sure he got it right. Duhva-- ah--something or other." 

Ahtar tensed, his immediate distress perceptible. 

"And another man. Young-- a companion of sorts--only description I have is that he's a relic--"

"Fuck!" bellowed Ahtar. 

Erdi dropped her armload of driftwood. Ahtar grabbed the largest branch from the pile, winging it out into the Sea of Ghosts. Gulls and carrion-birds flapped upwards.

"What's gotten into you?" demanded Erdi. 

"Ahhh! That little shit!" he exploded. "Just wait till I get my hands-- I told him. Do not run around with that-- Aaah! Worn cunt of Dibella-- Fuck! Fuck!" Ahtar stormed down the beach, kicking up rocks in flurries of sand and dust.

Erdi sighed, watching this. She stooped to pick up the rest of the wood, seeming not-at-all alarmed, so I tried to settle myself, though my heart was beating like a blacksmith's hammer. 

"It's always Marcus," Erdi said. 

I chose my next words with great care: "Who exactly is this Marcus?"

Erdi cut me off. "Ahtar's nephew." She regarded me critically. "Try not to make any untoward assumptions. It hurts his feelings." She nodded at the lone dark figure still tossing objects into the ocean. "People see how Marcus gets when he's around and they just believe--" I raised an eyebrow. "Well. You'll see," Erdi said.

Ahtar was still yelling incoherent obscenities and hurling rocks. I saw him tear a full-sized bush up by the roots and throw it a considerable distance into the water. The sea-birds and crabs would be having an unrestful morn. 

After a little while Ahtar fell silent and his frenzied rock-throwing became more directed towards a purpose. I could see him looking behind broken crates and under bushes, grabbing up things and loading them into his cloak. Ah. Breakfast.

I built a small fire and dug a pit for coals, lining it with seaweed. Erdi sorted out our belongings. 

Ahtar returned to us with an armful of clams and baby mudcrabs. 

I loaded them with the hot stones into the pit and covered it with sand and smooring the fire down to the barest wisp of smoke. 

"You tell him?" Ahtar asked Erdi, as we settled down to wait. 

"So much for leaving your family out of it," she agreed, glumly. 

"Hope they don't hold me accountable," Ahtar said. "I got enough trouble." 

I assured him that even to the most casual listener, this Marcus sounded completely ungovernable. 

We waited for our meal to cook. Ahtar explained a little more. It was a squalid little tale. Ahtar's adoptive father had to strike his own eldest son from the family patrimony for some grave misdeed. Marcus happened to be this miscreant's youngest son. Years later, Marcus had fled the jurisdiction of the Imperial City, for reasons that had not been confided to Ahtar. Now Marcus was here in Skyrim, doing this-and-that to get by. 

"Jala said she was pretty sure Marcus was still.." Erdi hesitated. "You know-- working..." Stealing, whoring, who knew what. Committing atrocities like putting out lighthouse fires. And then there was this Nord he'd taken up with--apparently a relationship violative of even Skyrim's rather relaxed mores-- 

"Not right," scowled Ahtar. "Man's older than me."

Ah. This Marcus must be a young person. I revised my thoughts accordingly. 

"I confronted Marcus about it," Erdi reminded him. "Back when." Her mouth closed up in disapproval. "Marcus said he's just a trick." 

"Ha," said Ahtar. "Should be so lucky." He shook his head. "Damn fool kid." 

Erdi made a noise to indicate she shared his doubt. Ahtar cracked open the first mudcrab and handed it to her. "Wish there was ale," he said, slurping down a clam. "Or garlic-and-wine. Anything." 

I agreed. Absent butter or seasonings, this meal was rather uninspiring. Mudcrab has little flavor on its own. We picked crab meat out of the hot shells and ate it till it seemed no longer worth our efforts. The clams were better, but not by much. 

"What's this relic collector business?" I asked. 

"Morellus," said Ahtar. "That damned museum. Don't think I don't want a word with that mer, too. Because it just encourages Marcus to worse behavior. Thieving. Grave-robbing." He brooded. "Risky." And then-- "At least it pays well. Morellus ain't some pimp or con artist. That part of it's legit." 

"Marcus comes through Solitude every once in awhile," Erdi explained. "Lately he's always been with this fellow." Her nose wrinkled.

"Do you know this Dovahkiin?" she asked Ahtar. 

"Yeah. We've met," said Ahtar shortly. "Dovahkiin's a fancy new word for bandit so far's I'm concerned." He frowned. "Showed up one day with Marcus. Wanted to get in my good graces. Makes a big deal about his connections in Eastmarch. Says he's gonna help Ulfric rebuild Skyrim. Says he has this vision. Says he's kin to dragons, part dragon... my ass. I told Marcus to stay away, guys like that're more dangerous than Peryite's burning clap." He ignored Erdi's little grunt of disapprobation to speculate: "Bet I can guess what part's dragon. Only reason I can think why that damn fool kid--" 

"Marcus doesn't listen," interrupted Erdi, cutting off this fascinating digression to tell the story of how Ahtar and Jala had tried to help Marcus. After they'd had to go pay an angry General Tullius wergeld over some conversion of property belonging to the Fifteenth Legion, they'd purchased a carriage ticket to send Marcus all the way to Riften, to the care of an allegedly more responsible older brother. Even purchased lodgings for him. That had not worked out. 

She told other stories, one not so amusing. Marcus had noticed Erdi's little fall from grace at the Blue Palace, and her transformation from courtier to personal-servant to drudge, and he had mocked her for it, the day he'd caught her selling her fine clothing. She tried to make a funny tale of it, and even laughed, but I could hear it in her voice. She had thought they were friends. 

I decided I did not like this Marcus. I reassured Ahtar that I would not be holding his younger relative's behavior against him. 

We all have inconvenient family.

We were not, as it happened, relieved by the other scouts. When the Khajiit caravan arrived a couple of hours later, Ahtar detailed his suspicions to Ma'dran. Ahtar agreed with Erdi that the shipwreck had been gone over by scavengers or pirates. Had a proper Imperial patrol investigated and cleared this ship, there should have been certain marks made on the hull, on the shore side. There had been none. 

Ma'dran nodded. "Inland is heavier going," he said, considering. "Better than not arriving. Go. Survey the area directly northwest of here. See whether it is possible to bring the horses through the mire." 

I made my bow and offered Erdi my arm, and we were off on another promenade across the swamp. 

Ahtar remained behind to consult with Ma'dran.

Hjaalmarch swamp is said to be barren and ugly--

\--but I think it has a certain subtle beauty.

We slogged for what seemed to be miles, the muck sucking at our boots. I did not like the footing, and we discovered several quaking bogs. There were no spiders or other vile creatures. We saw no men or other predators. 

It is difficult not to feel uneasy in the swamp, it is ... expectant. And what Hjaalmarch is waiting for, we do not know. Erdi and I kept looking over our shoulders as we went, and stopped repeatedly to listen. It is eerily quiet in places. 

All we heard were the insects, muted now that there had been nights of cold rain. 

Eventually we made our slow way to higher ground.

I began to experience some trouble. 

The pain returned, as I knew it would. Blessedly the nausea had not. I lay on my side, breathing shallowly and sweating torrents. I wished I could tell Erdi not to worry, but I could not speak through it, and had laid down so that I would not faint. 

And then-- "What was that?" Erdi asked, startled. I had-- forgive me... Really, this is something one learns as soon as one can cast sparks-- incontinence is really almost less of an embarrassment. My magicka must have replenished somewhat during the previous night as I slept, because I lost control of it and cast healing on myself without ever willing it done. The unchannelled magicka washed through me in cool waves, easing my distress. 

I said nothing of it. I had already suffered grosser lapses in Erdi's vicinity, which she had been gracious enough to overlook. And, not being a mage, she might not recognize what had happened. Once the pain receded and I could sit up, I said nothing of it. But it was a foreboding sign. The ungoverned use of magicka is always a disaster, particularly from an untrained mage. And in extremis, the body will do whatever it is capable of to survive. This is not always good, for example, for one's companions. 

But I felt much better, notwithstanding the embarrassment. I was able to stand up, and agreed that we we would benefit from finding fresh water, as our skins were low and we were both thirsty.

We found a pool that looked promising for spring water, and I went to follow it to its source.

I heard a noise, and turned.

It was a lone Nord in a blue scaled cuirass, well armed-and-armored.

I hesitated. 

Without ever taking his eyes from me, he knelt to fill his canteen, and recorked it. 

I stayed where I was, crouched by the side of the spring, coaxing a recalcitrant waterskin to fill and attempting to convey a disinclination towards any aggression. 

I could hear Erdi coming towards us through the brush. So could the Nord. He stood up and walked away, again keeping me in his sight until he rounded an outcropping and was sheltered from my view. He moved silently, and it was impossible for me to note his direction of travel. 

Erdi and I hid for a little time, then made our slow way back to the caravan to report.

When he heard my description of the Nord, Ahtar laughed sourly. Ma'dran had not been too happy with Erdi's report, and he had directed the two of us and Ahtar back along the route to flag a safe path for the horses. This was slow going. When we got back to the place that we'd seen the Nord, Ahtar directed Erdi and myself to make a great deal of noise as we went along, and to go slowly. I was too tired to mind my feet, so this suited us just fine. Ahtar himself ranged farther afield from us. He was actively looking for someone.

Erdi and I came upon him talking to someone quietly, a couple of hours later. Ahtar named us to him.

So this was the scapegrace Marcus. 

Contrary to what I had been led to believe, this Marcus was entirely unprepossessing. And not so very young as that. I was willing to hazard that he and I were at a not dissimilar stage of life. 

And--again contrary to expectations-- this Marcus seemed entirely business-minded. Beyond one disdainful glance, he did not acknowledge Ahtar's interruption, and went straight back to conveying information. 

Evidently this Marcus was equally unimpressed by my credentials. 

"Oh--ho, my," cooed Erdi. She was so close by my right ear that I jumped a little. "What IS that you have on, my dear?" she said to Marcus, favoring him with her own arch disapproval. 

I choked, for that was Taarie, to the life. So, I gave her... No. Not Endarie. I could do better. My second-eldest sister Cireen, in all her Alinor-bred hauteur: 

"If that is what the demimondaine wear in Solitude these days--" I leaned down closer to Erdi, so close that my ear secretly brushed the down of her cheek. "Color me unimpressed." Lest she think our brief contact inadvertent, I gave my ear a little flick. Erdi flinched gratifyingly. Her gauntleted hand closed on my forearm, hard. We looked at each other. I averted my gaze. 

Erdi decided to allot me-- and this Marcus-- a little grace: "I do like that whatever-it-is accent," she said brightly to him. 

"Is that green the new color this season?" I smiled, to mirror her: "It's quite fetching." 

Ahtar snorted.

Beyond a hard stare, Marcus affected to not-have-heard us, still speaking intently to Ahtar: "The beasts seem drawn to him," Marcus said. "We try to draw them away from settled places if we think we can kill them on our own. There seems to be no other pattern. I have found their burial mounds-- but whether they arise seems to be a matter of chance, except--" Marcus stopped. "You don't believe me," he said, flatly. 

"We've seen a dragon," Ahtar said. "Couple days ago or so. Outside Solitude. Neither of you two were around. It died pretty quick. So maybe your man isn't all that special." 

Marcus said, "There is another one out here, somewhere. Be wary." 

Ahtar scoffed: "More worried about your damned pirates." 

"Privateers," corrected Marcus. And--"War is what it is," he said evenly. "I'll not apologize for it." 

Ahtar elected to disagree, profanely. 

We parted ways. 

I did glance back to catch Marcus wiping the pond slime off his boots with his gloved hands. I touched Erdi's arm, and she turned to see it. We made sure our laughter was quite audible. 

Erdi and Ahtar and I went back to the caravan and made our report, though I noted that Ahtar referenced to Marcus and his companion as a "couple a adventurers I kinda know, who're all right, so don't kill em, come get me" rather than admit to any familial relations. 

The remainder of the day's scouting was uneventful and we made it up to Ra'zhinda's little camp, which she ceded to us, just as we had ceded ours to Sheshamarjo. We were taking the patrols in turn, leapfrogging each other up the coast, scouting northward through the marsh from the coast to about four or five miles inland. 

It rained again that night, of course.

In the morning we laid out our armor to dry in the sun. 

Erdi, who had stood night guard for the three of us, came back and stripped down to do the same, pouring the water out of her boots. Her socks and padding were soaked through. She dabbed a little bit of healing potion on her blisters.

Ahtar took a quick patrol around and reported all was well. 

I thought we could probably risk another fire. 

He didn't see any clams or mudcrabs-- there was little cover on the beach here-- so we would eat hardtack while we waited for our armor to dry. 

I looked at Ahtar, and he looked at me, but--

We needed to talk.

Ahtar wanted to apologize. 

He'd been thinking: why had Jorluf kept the bulk of the Stormcloaks out of Solitude? He'd used some of Tan's men to supplement the guard-- but the gate had remained closed to Yorvik's men and Istvir's vanguard. Why would he do that to his nominal allies? 

"Got to thinking, about what you said about khajiit pretending to work if they don't wanna," Ahtar said. "Maybe that key gave Jorluf yet another reason to stall. You know-- send a message up, tell Falk he's got a way in. Talk a bit more. Good for another day or two's wait." 

"And if that fails, carefully plan the assault?" I said. "Maybe send up and down the hill a few times to consult with Istvir?" I was familiar with this process. If there's one skill all Thalmor agents learn to master-- we are given so many unpalatable tasks-- it's contingency planning. Clarify each written assignment; cover every avenue of approach; be meticulous in submitting and receiving the required approvals-- has the First Emissary considered what will happen if? Perhaps that is another memorandum needing to be filed? Is there authority to be consulted? Should the Ambassador weigh in?-- and in good time the object of one's orders may well naturally expire. 

"Jorluf's pretty good at not-working," said Ahtar. "Don't know how much time he'd be given to stall, if that's what he's doing." 

"The Imperials we ran across haven't seen any signs of Stormcloaks coming in along the coast from Dawnstar," I reminded him. "They hadn't even seen longboats in days. They seem to think Ulfric's personal army is down around Morthal-- they're keeping lookout in case the Stormcloaks cross up through the middle of the swamp towards the north." Well, that's what their sergeant said they had been doing. From a casual look-over of their camp, I suspected otherwise. 

"Huh," said Ahtar. 

"About the Pelagius wing--" I prompted. 

"Yeah. Erdi never told me all that before." Ahtar grimaced, and rubbed at his face where the scars pulled white. "Should listen, I guess," he said, of himself. "Hell, even when I was provisional captain of the city guard-- heh, Acting-Captain Ahtar-- I was never allowed back in that wing. Never. Should have asked Stentor why not. Too busy showing off. Peacocking." 

"What happened?" I asked. 

He touched the scars on his face. "This," he said.

"Forsworn were raiding down out of an enclave in the northwest. We set up to go out there, meet up with the Jehanna and take care of it. One of those hags rained that spittle stuff-- like sticky fire-- down on us. I was in front, trying to tear down one of those gate-spikes--showing off-- and got this." He showed me how he had put up his arm; it had flowed down to burn arm and back, twisting and fusing flesh as it went. But the worst-looking damage, by far, was what it had done to his face. 

"Stuck to me and ate its way through. Burst the eye and burnt clean down to the bone. I was pretty bad off for a long time," he said. "Should a died. Never the same since. Don't even think the same way. Had a fever too long, they think." 

He must had a great deal of magickal healing, to regenerate that eye and replace the flesh. Only so much could be done, of course. After a time, the flesh resists further intervention. What he had now was not pretty, but it caused him no handicap, and it was only minimally painful. No handicap apart from his appearance, of course. He had been reckoned a very handsome man. One can still see it, in certain light. 

It had all been surpassingly expensive. One more blow to Jala's family's fortune. There had been others. They had lost a great deal, these past several years. And his injury had cost them more than that:

Ahtar's lips moved in a perceptible sneer: "No one wants to look at this face, so no more Palace duty for me. I scare that pretty little princess who married into being jarl. Got a nice new title: Head Jailor, cause no one cares if prisoners get made sick by lookin' at me. They want 'em scared. So, I get to be the Haafingar Guards' pet freak and Aldis gets promoted to my job."

Another little tragedy amongst many. I wondered: Had Ahtar still been in charge of the Haafingar Guard, would events still have fallen out as they did? Aldis-- nothing that I'd heard yet shook me from my conviction that the man was a blustering fool. Ahtar had served directly under Ulfric at Markarth. Had earned his respect. Would that deadly duel have commenced? Or would Ahtar have dealt with Ulfric as Sorex deals with drunks at the Skeever-- one firm hand to the back of the neck and a brisk escort outdoors?

"Someone's coming up here," Erdi reported. 

Ahtar made an aggrieved noise, which summed my feelings on the matter. I'd been just about to pull down the tent flaps.

The pain knifed through my abdomen as I tried to rise to my feet. When I faltered, Ahtar pulled me up. I pretended that I'd simply overbalanced. It was nothing. 

Erdi scowled. She'd seen the expression cross my face. 

I had a little magicka. When Ahtar went out I healed myself again. Purposefully, so that I would not embarrass myself again. This time, I made a proper job of it, I thought.

I would be fine. 

But-- why did I feel that pressure in my head again? That not-quite noise? Already strong this morning, it went from uncomfortable to nigh-unbearable. 

"Better get dressed," Ahtar said. "Need to be ready."

We could all see who it was--Marcus, scrabbling down over the rocks to get to us. We finished with our last ties and clasps and ran up to join him. 

Gone was that supercilious attitude; he was gasping for breath and in a blind panic. 

"Dragon," he wheezed, and pointed, in the direction of the legionary camp. 

I desisted from mockery; the situation was too urgent. 

Erdi had put her collar on back-to-front somehow, and I went to squire her.

Ahtar is a good judge of men, and I think he saw that Marcus was done. 

Dragons inspire terror. 

With a few well-chosen words, Ahtar calmed Marcus down and set him to the vital task of warning the Khajiit--- they needed to seek cover immediately. Perhaps Ma'dran could spare us a few warriors? 

Ahtar pointed Marcus towards Ra'zhinda's general path; hopefully she would be encountered along the way. As soon as he was released, Marcus crashed off through the underbrush in the general direction of the Khajiit. 

I hoped he had the sense to see where we'd marked the dry path. 

Ahtar and Erdi and I finished armoring ourselves. Then we went towards the Legion's little camp. Ahtar held us to a slow lope. It would do us no good, he said, if we wore ourselves out on the way.

The noise in my head increased till it was maddening, but I kept the pace. 

When I saw it high above us, my knees went to water. Erdi cried out. We took cover by pure instinct, crouching in the shadows of the brush. 

This was not the same kind of creature we had previously seen. This thing was massive, ancient, and foully evil. Even its shadow radiated menace. I could not begin to guess its scale. 

"Well, shit," said Ahtar, almost happily. "Think I peed myself just now. Ugly big thing, ain't it?" He stole a quick drink from the waterskin and glanced back up. "Huh,' he judged. "Headed toward Dawnstar maybe. We better get to it." Erdi and I exchanged disbelieving glances--was he grinning?!--and followed, climbing the hill at a more sedate pace. 

We saw the dragon wheel out over the highland plains. Then it banked sharply and headed back downwards, overflying us and going towards the legionary camp which overlooked the beach.

Even in the declining days of the Third Empire, the Legion breeds stout men. When the Imperials saw the dragon, they went on the offensive. 

We could hear the dragon roaring from a great distance, its voice shaping Word after Word.

Even if the Legion had the numbers, there could be no shield wall against this beast. Men standing in ranks would only die the faster. I could see they had taken a more dispersed formation, the better to avoid the dragon's lunging attack, or to get out of striking distance of its breath and its Words.

Several men stood by its head, doing their best to occupy its attention, whilst the others flanked. We saw a man-- two, then three-- lose the battle as we watched.

There were many bodies lying in the field.

There were a few archers keeping towards the back, who ran for cover whenever the dragon turned. There were arrows sticking out of the dragon everywhere, and the blood had started to flow in rivulets. I could see what the others were doing: buying time, while the archers shot. 

None of us save Erdi had a bow. 

I was not afraid at this point; I was so irritated and angry at the ringing in my head. I couldn't think. If it took killing this dragon to make it stop, so be it. 

I remember giving thanks that I had a sword, at least-- it would take far less time than digging at the beast with my eating-knife. 

Ahtar slapped me lightly across the shoulders lightly-- hold a moment-- and I nodded without looking at him. He was studying the dragon's movements, trying to determine how best to engage.

The big Nord in the blue-scale armor kept towards its face, trying to keep its attention. I realized he must be that dragon-hunter Ahtar'd been talking about. He followed the dragon's movements naturally and smoothly, running into range and then leaping out. He was goading the dragon, trying to keep its full attention. 

And-- what had happened? Something was wrong with him.

Ahtar yelled something that I couldn't hear over the sheer noise of the shouts and the screaming of the injured men. I could hear the sheer terror in his voice-- I don't think he even cursed. What was he-- 

I started running after him, towards the dragon, but we were both too late.

Oh, gods.

Erdi had decided to mimic Ji'la's insane bravado. She bounded down the hill to stand beside the Dovahkiin, and took a swipe at the dragon's face--

\--with no more than her little iron dagger.


	21. Cyrelian--War Cry: Hjaalmarch 4

Erdi stumbled just a little. The Dovahkiin rose from his knee and bellowed a great Shout, interrupting the dragon just as it had been about to spew its magickal breath all over her. It backed off and gaped at him. He reached down-- what was he picking up? Erdi straightened up and screamed defiance and waved her dagger at the dragon's face again. 

Ahtar's deathgrip on my arm kept me from bolting towards her.

A Legionnaire ran in with a greatsword and carved an enormous chunk out of the dragon's side while it was distracted. Scales and blood spattered everywhere. A Legion archer closed in and snapped point-blank shot after shot into the dragon's face. 

Arrows began to sprout like hairs on the dragon's muzzle and about its eyes.

The dragon snapped its mouth shut to protect itself and whipped about, exhaling magicka through its nostrils. The Legion archer went up in blue flames like paper cast in fire. The man beside him took the edge of the burst and howled in agony as his clothing went up.

I could smell the poor man's searing flesh as he ran away screaming, trailing flames of blue. He passed out of my field of vision, still howling like the damned. Was that a shock spell? Fire? Too massive an expenditure of magicka to know. My skin tingled as if I stood in a thunderstorm. 

The Legion man with the greatsword went in for another strike, but the dragon grabbed him by the chest, shook him savagely, and hurled him far up into the air. I saw the impact against the rocks, so far away that I could not hear it over the roaring noise in my head.

Ahtar released my arm and we both sprinted down the slope. 

"There!" he said, and I stopped. There was a dead man at my feet, with a bow miraculously unburned and yet strung. I grabbed the quiver and slipped it on. 

The dragon chose to re-engage the Dovahkiin, who threatened a great blow across its jaw, and it reared back a few dozen feet.

"Now!" snapped Ahtar. "Run!"

We ran to Erdi. 

"Back off!" Ahtar warned her. "Get behind us! Now!" 

I reached to grab Erdi away, and--

The dragon sat up and came in for another bite. 

It held its body awkwardly, trying to keep out of the reach of the frenzied Nord trying to slice into its wing membranes.

I could dimly hear the cadence-calls for volley shots-- the archers must have already regrouped under someone else's command. The first wave hit the dragon and it shuddered. I got a couple of hits in myself, scraping away a couple scales with my sword. I didn't think it made any difference. I could feel the pressure mounting inside myself, wholly akin to the noise, and-- 

The dragon opened its mouth again, and before it could Speak the Word tore its way from my throat. 

The dragon jerked backwards and was silent for a moment. 

The burned man's screams faltered and ceased.

Then the dragon came down again toward us, its mouth agape.

I shoved Erdi back. 

"Get some more arrows!" I yelled to her, shaking her. I prayed she was listening. After a second she obeyed, threading her way from body to body and grabbing at quivers. Thank Auriel, she chose to immediately run them to each of the remaining Imperial archers before taking some for herself. 

Ahtar ran past me back into melee range, standing beside the Dovahkiin, standing just far enough apart that the dragon could not quite reach to strike them both. When it moved to snatch Ahtar, the Dovahkiin Shouted again; when it whirled toward him, I did the same, this time forcing the Word to obey my direction. The dragon staggered with each hit.

A Khajiit scream-snarl cut through the roaring-- Ra'zhinda leapt down the hill to join the fray. 

She slashed repeatedly at the dragon's neck even as it bit another poor bastard in half. 

Khajiit are normally silent, but not when fully roused; Ra'zhinda's war-cries were deafening, drowning out even the dragon. 

The hellish squalling caused even the dragon to cease its Shouts. Its head wove back and forth as it tried to assess which of us was the worst threat.

After soaking up another couple volleys of arrows, the dragon crabbed away and beat its wings, heaving itself aloft.

They say that the dragon that took Helgen was so big it blotted out the sun. 

This one stood fair to match it in size. 

When I saw it come back down towards us, I knew that no help was coming. 

The dragon was merely satisfying itself that we had no other allies at hand, before coming back in to finish us off.

Ahtar surveyed who was left, and organized us into some semblance of order. This time we had Erdi and myself also acting as archers to try to cover the swordsmen. When it came back down we were ready.

We shot it again and again as it came back to the ground. Blood flowered on its wings and streamed from the rent that the dead Imperial had made in its side.

"Stay back!" I cried, but the dragon correctly identified the weakest element in our little array, and headed for myself and Erdi.

For a wonder, Erdi ran away and then circled back to shoot at the dragon again from behind. I kept checking on her between shots. 

I was running out of arrows. 

The dragon looked like a hedgehog pincushion, quills sticking out everywhere.

I tripped over a dead man's arm, and-- 

I mentioned they can move silently, when they wish. Or-- I was having a great trouble hearing. 

In one bound the dragon was on me, knocked me to my knees with a Shout. 

The Word ripped its way out of me and the dragon staggered again. It gasped... had I hurt it? 

It doused me with its magickal breath before I could even get back up. The blue flames washed over me.

My own magicka flared up in instant response, forming a shield to keep it from me. I could feel the blue fire heating my flesh, but it was merely an uncomfortable warmth. 

I turned and ran.

I had no control over my magicka; it was doing what it willed, and-- It is a difficult explanation. 

Magicka is far stronger in extremis, just as mundane strength is, but it has no intelligent will to parse fine distinctions. Such as sparing one's companions its full wrath.

I ran away from my compatriots, trying to get to the beach. If this dragon magicka were indeed fire... 

I was lucky. My shields would not have sustained me for that quarter-mile. But the dragon's fire dissipated first; and my magicka did nothing beyond shielding. It was wholly out of my control; had it chosen to call down the killing fire onto all of us, I could not have stopped it. 

Once the flames died completely, my shields dropped. 

I was left standing like a fool. 

I immediately ran back.

The dragon was obviously injured now. 

The Dovahkiin and Ahtar and Ra'zhinda were baiting it, trying to get it to go to one of them or the other; if it did, the others would slash at it. 

The Legion's blacksmith was fighting right beside them.

The archers kept shooting.

We all closed in, hacking and slashing. Even Erdi ran up to hit it again a few times in the wing, now that it was sorely weakened.

The dragon began to stumble and falter. 

There was no more shouting or bursts of magicka.

Ahtar was not close enough to stop Erdi; and I was too winded to catch her. 

Instead I focused on the bow, and made the last three arrows count.

The dragon reared up terrifyingly high in its death-throes.

Ra'zhinda's eerie howls turned ecstatic; she was in her full element. Ahtar, beside her, bore much the same expression. Perhaps he was howling too; I could not hear him over the dragon. The pressure in my head was horrible in its intensity; I remember feeling sorry for myself that my magicka had spared me from the dragon-flames; the pain was that acute. 

I identified a rock nearby that would be useful, when it came time to dash out my own brains.

In the end it became sheer tedium; it was like killing a mountain. 

I think the Dovahkiin got the death-blow in the end.

We did not trust its demise; all of us went up to prod and poke at the dragon.

It slid downward under its own massive weight and rolled to its side, alarmingly lifelike. We all backed off, weapons at the ready. 

But it lay still. 

"Think it's good and dead," said Ahtar. 

"By Shor, that's a big one," commented the Dovahkiin, shaking clotted blood off his wrist. He looked at his hand and made an unhappy noise. 

Ra'zhinda laughed. Soundlessly, thank Auriel's sweet grace-- 

My head was still pounding. 

Why hadn't the noise ceased? 

If anything, it was getting louder. Perhaps my head would burst, and that would be an end to it.

Whoever the remaining officer was-- it was not the Nibenese sergeant, I was sorry to see-- he looked over the carnage and gave orders. The Imperials began to retrieve their gear and their dead.

"I want to get a scale from that thing," said Erdi. She approached the corpse of the dragon and stuck her dagger in its muzzle, prying one up and sawing at it. "Got it!" she crowed. 

The corpse heaved again and my magicka pulsed a warning. The Imperial officer and I ran in towards the belly of the great beast, weapons instinctively to hand. 

And the dragon's corpse exploded in a great gout of acidic blood and fire.

Erdi had been up at the dragon's head where the fire was least and she was able to roll clear. I had been standing closer to the great belly of the beast-- when it exploded the flame billowed over me, cresting in huge waves.

The dragon burned itself from within, bones calcinating and snapping under the intense heat. Grass blackened in all directions.

I stood where I was, my fragile shields holding, too apprehensive to risk moving. The roaring in my head-- the dragon was dead-- that pressure--was that now the flames? 

But the flames were receding as the dragon's flesh too-swiftly burned to nothing, and soon there was nothing left but white ash and bone. 

Unwillingly, I turned to see what had become of the others. 

Ahtar stood rooted in place, his face an agonized silent rictus. Erdi was gasping for breath somewhere behind him, evidently still hale.

The huge pressure mounted and then-- 

I saw the Dovahkiin rubbing his face, also pained. The roaring noise coalesced. It floated upwards to leave me and centered on him, flaring up in a great white-gold light. For a couple of heartbeats he radiated light, and then it faded. 

And that was it. The pain was gone. The world was silent. 

The Dovahkiin was looking at me.

He sheathed his nicked and filthy sword, making no comment.

Ra'zhinda coughed and then made an extraordinarily polite and deferential request for something to drink. This one would drink anything. But by preference brandy.

Her voice was too hoarse for her to go on. 

One of the archers allowed that he had some Colovian back at his tent. He looked around, up and down that bloody field, looking for his superior--and belatedly realized that he was in command. The Imperial officer who'd run up to me was lying half-incinerated at the dragon's feet. 

So he gave the order, and we took the wounded--so very few wounded-- to the Legion camp.

We rested. 

I drank a little but the foul taste in my mouth made it difficult to swallow. 

The soldiers kept looking skyward. 

"There's no others," said the Dovahkiin. 

"Can't hear any." I agreed. My head agreed. The Dovahkiin frowned at me again. 

There was no more noise but the rushing of the wind through the pines and the distant surf. Even the wounded were silent.

But then--

Oh, no.


	22. Cyrelian--Mine Own Foolishness: Hjaalmarch 5

You know that an argument is bad when a Legion blacksmith ceases hammering to demand what in Oblivion is going on.

When a veteran ranker grimaces at the words thrown. 

But as much as Imperials like to gossip, they loathe being unprepared, so they turned straight back to work, to make the vital repairs needful. And any glances they spared were for the sky, lest the next dragon catch them unawares. 

Even so, they paused occasionally to listen.

Erdi tried to explain herself in a reasonable voice... really she did... 

...at least initially.

Ahtar was hearing none of it.

He went right back to haranguing her, at a volume I was pretty sure could be heard all the way down to the beach. Maybe even to Ma'dran's camp, or Dawnstar. We were only about ten or fifteen miles out.

I was drawn to intervene-- my first misstep on that day's downhill path. I was too quick to share in her sullen resentment. My mood was volatile, switching rapidly between cold and hot; from elation to dull leaden exhaustion to pure hot anger. 

Ahtar knew what he was doing. This was pure theater on his part. I'd been in front of enough training-sergeants to recognize that. There was no need to let myself become overset. 

But it was difficult to quell my instinctual response.

I did not get the chance to step between. 

Erdi essayed her own counter-attack: By what right dare he admonish her, when he had failed completely to give her any direction? How was she supposed to know that's not how battle went?

What order had he given her that she had disobeyed? 

Was she supposed to let the dragon gut open the Dovahkiin? Like a cat toying with its fish?

So it was stupid, running up next to a dragon with an insufficient weapon. What was she supposed to do? Wish for a glaive to fall into her hands? She couldn't even properly lift most swords-- what did he want her to do? 

Would it have been preferable for her to stand in the back and wait for it to kill her? To kill all of us? 

"If I set you to scrub a hallway I'd ensure you knew what to do before I set you loose with a brush--" she was getting shrill.

Ahtar's rescue came from an unlikely quarter. 

The Imperials were appalled. 

Normally they are not so chivalrous, but one of them took Erdi by the arm and pulled her aside--she did not like this. 

But they were worried. Was she all right? Did she need help? What was she doing with-- 

Because they would be more than willing to take her back to some civilized place, away from-- 

I got up to tell them to back off. But Erdi herself took care of it:

She was rather offended at having been hauled away from the argument just as she was winning. 

"See to your own business," she snapped, leaving their mouths agape. 

She turned on Ahtar again--

At this point the Dovahkiin himself intervened, getting up and walking slowly between them. The sheer charismatic weight of his presence forcing Ahtar back; Ahtar lowered his voice and gave ground. 

Erdi, of course, was not intimidated. She pressed forward the attack. 

The Dovahkiin waved her silent with a hand still streaming blood.

The Dovahkiin held up his hand and showed us where his sword-hilt had driven clean to the bone, between his palm and thumb. I could see the thick rime of callous gaping at the edges of the deep wound and swallowed. It was an ugly little injury. Absent healing, it might cost the hand.

"Mine own foolishness," the Dovahkiin said. "To hit a mountain like that with a sword. Full strength, at that. Better to slam an axe into a boulder." The dragon's gnarled scales had turned his blade with ease. The Dovahkiin mimed himself faltering, going to his knees and dropping his sword. "Had your girl there not come in when she did--" he shook his head. "Take that into account with your might-have-beens. My sword was no more good to me than her dagger. I could not hurt the beast--" there was almost no getting through to its flesh, certainly not with an injured hand. 

"Yon archers carried the day." 

That, and the poor brave bastard who'd been dashed against the rocks, who'd seen enough to know to hit the dragon with a glancing blow, tearing scales loose along its side. It had been just enough.

The Dovahkiin nodded at Erdi and stepped aside with her to quietly, personally thank her. I could see him pointing out features of our battle-field as she nodded, paying close heed. Some instruction was being imparted, I gathered. The Dovahkiin's hand still dripped blood as he gestured. He ignored the wound. There were worse injuries to be tended. His could wait. 

Ahtar sulked. No other word for it. 

I did not want to go over to him and perhaps suffer the same treatment. 

So Ra'zhinda and I took a quick opportunity to go over our gear. She sat at the wheel and swiftly buffed the worst nicks out of her sword and looked over mine. Of lesser quality, it was going to be a loss. I would have the joy of another argument with Ma'dran. Ra'zhinda said that she would be going back up to meet with Ma'dran and the rest-- 

If all went well-- Ra'zhinda grimaced; I knew what she meant--the caravan would be moving up to where she had established the new forward site. She gave me directions. Our tent was already in place, Ra'zhinda said. Lena had been helping with the preliminary setup-- Lena wanted a bake-oven--when Marcus had pelted into camp. Ra'zhinda had sent Marcus and Lena to warn Ma'dran and the rest of the caravan; and she had come at once. She preened her whiskers. What a fight it had been. Worthy of a bard's tale, yes? She would have to talk to Ji'la at once. Ji'la would never forgive her-- 

She looked myself and Erdi over and wrinkled up her muzzle in a cryptic little grin. And then she slung her bow and trotted off. 

Erdi and I watched her go. We should have gone with her. 

Ahtar and the Imperials held what looked to be a brief council of war, with the Dovahkiin being consulted as to many urgent questions.

I was no soldier nor great warrior; my opinion wasn’t worth consulting. The Imperials- and by this I would include Ahtar-- were having none of it. Erdi and I were rather pointedly excluded. 

Erdi was rubbing her face. "My eyes are burning," she complained. 

My own skin felt sunburned and taut, and we smelled like a particularly foul barbecue. The smell of the burned men was still hanging over the field. I advised Ahtar that we were going down to bathe. 

The Dovahkiin saw us and tried to bring us into the discussion with some humorous phrase, but an irritated Ahtar was having none of it. Perversely, I decided then and there that I approved of this dragon-killing Nord. He seemed rather friendly and jovial. I shouldn't count his bedfellow against him. Anyone, I felt, could display bad judgment in that regard. 

"Ha," agreed Erdi, cheering only just a little. "They didn't even ask us about the little dragon," she said. "What're they going to do if there are any more? Aren't they going to warn Dawnstar?" 

I shrugged. I was too tired to have an opinion. "Have you got another healing potion?" 

Because even while I was roiling with energy and thrumming with anger, the sickness was still there, little tendrils of pain making themselves known. And I could not heal. Any magicka I'd had was spent. When I reached for it, my whole body flashed with sudden heat; a warning. 

Erdi did have a healing potion, and by some miracle also produced a magicka potion which she had scavenged off the field. Although the thought of the men writhing in the tent and the Dovahkiin's unsettling injury shamed me, it did not stop me. I consumed both potions at once. I'd no notion of how bad off I was till I did so. My eyes closed, briefly, as my senses hummed. "Gods," I said. "That's better-- very much better." I let the euphoria roll through me. Thankfully it dissipated quickly. 

"Your eyes still hurt?" I asked. "Had better at least get rinsed off." The more fool I. It was a wholly inappropriate suggestion at that time. But we had bathed together before. 

"We're almost out of soap," Erdi noted. 

"Use it up," I counseled. "I'll deal with Ma'dran. Who knows what poison dragon-spittle carries."

Lack of forethought breeds a great deal of trouble.

I should never have drawn Erdi away from the rest of the group. This could have waited. At the very least I should have chosen to go well up onto the beach to stand guard. 

I watched her work the suds through her gambeson and wring it empty. She rinsed off the armor-pieces as instructed, shaking the water out of them before tossing them up on the 

beach. She was wholly focused on that task.

But at that time I was still riding the euphoria of the potions. How good it was, to be alive. I was making rather less than the appropriate efforts to conform my thoughts. 

Erdi glanced up.

"Cyr?" 

"Mm?" Had she caught me staring? 

"Why don't you get in the water?" Erdi challenged. 

I sighed. "Just waiting for you--" 

"To finish up?" She flashed me that little grin. "Pretty big bathtub," she said. I could see the very tip of her tongue. She was teasing me. "Plenty of room." 

"I'm standing guard." 

"Without your boots on, and looking in the wrong direction?" she queried, looking pleased. She looked around to be helpful. "Your sword's over there by that rock," Erdi reported. "And don't you want your bow?--" 

I gave in and pulled my armor-strings loose, turning so she could get at the cuisses for me. Another error. I should have made her go get dressed, and shooed her off towards the Imperial camp, or-- it was a foolish point of pride: I was not about to let her see how she discomfited me. 

I did have to turn aside to wash myself and clean my things, thanking the gods for the gift of cold water. My hands and feet were already solidly numb. 

Erdi continued to chatter-- I saw that she had donned some of her things, but nothing that impeded that glorious view. In full sun, she is radiant. And-- she could no more look away from me than I could look away from her. 

"Wish I had another magicka potion for you," she said, laughing. "Or a mirror. You should see what your face looks like--" 

I immediately corrected my demeanor. 

"Let's go find Ra'zhinda at camp," I suggested, hastily. Before I could become too pleased with myself again. 

"You sure?" she said. "We could just--"... and then, reluctantly: "All right." 

Probably I should have confronted her on this, but I did not. It was all too embarrassing. 

Missishness on my part. Another error. I was angry at myself at the lost opportunity; and then angry at myself for wanting the opportunity... for even identifying it. 

And now I was irritated, and that mood carried me all the way up to camp.

When we got to Ra'zhinda's camp, it was empty. Ma'dran and his people had not yet arrived. Three or four empty tents had already been set up for their arrival. 

Wet gambeson or no, I should have gotten dressed and waited outside the camp for the others. 

Erdi kept talking at me and--"Enough!" I said. "Just-- let me be by myself a little. Please. I just want to sit down and be alone. It has all been too much." 

My unsteady mood flickered yet again, from irritation to sheer fury to despair. My insistence on being alone had left Erdi alone as well. She went into Ma'dran's empty tent to leave me be. 

I could have-- I could have had some thought for her, and sat down with her in the middle of camp, near the banked fire. Or found some innocent task to occupy our attention. 

I got to feel smug in my self-righteousness and wallow in my own despond... 

...for all of a couple of minutes.

I heard Erdi crying.

I went to her. 

Erdi had been so strong, throughout that whole battle-- through our entire struggle. All these days battling through the marsh. 

But now she was crumpling. 

I held her as she gasped and sobbed, kissing her forehead, her wet eyes, her hair. I could hear the rising whine of the insects in the bog below.

"You need to listen to him," I counseled "I know he is a rough man, but he knows all the ways of battle and--" And I do not, unless one counts book-learning, which is worse than useless in the field, because it fills one's mind with foolishness. 

"What little I know," I promised. "I'll teach you. If-- if this is what you want. I am no great warrior but I have had a little training and I--"

"Because I couldn't bear it if--"

Erdi nodded vigorously and gulped, and coughed, and stilled. My flesh was bounding, but I did my utmost to ignore it. My fingers had already crept to rub against her nape-- I patted her, instead, hoping to convert it to a comforting gesture, rather than one that was sorely inappropriate.

"Never," I husked. "Never do that again. I thought I would die. For fear of you."

I kissed her again and again. Her hairline, along the rise of her cheekbone, and under it, to the soft place that lives just above and to the side of the mouth. 

We were both shivering. 

Shuddering. 

All my agitation had transmuted to an unwarranted heat.

I was nuzzling under beneath Erdi's ear, when she shoved hard against me. 

"We can't," she said, firmly. 

"Mmph--" was all I can manage, and "What?!" because she was still pressing up against me without surcease. 

"Cyrelian-- We're in Ma'dran's tent!" I blinked, and went back to what we were doing; it made no difference to me. Erdi made a noise of frustration and shoved hard at me, pushing both us out into the sunlight. 

Somehow we made it into our own tent.

"Huh--" she said a few minutes later, and thumbed away the tears that were running down my cheek. "I'm hurting you." 

"No," I gasped. "It's fine--" It wasn't. But the horrible hot pain in my abdomen was making no difference in my lust and the way she was grinding against me was too delicious; I would have continued had it killed me. 

Erdi rolled clear. 

I groaned at the lack of her.

"Are you going to be all right?"

"Yes!" I said. "No." I wiped away the annoying tears, which were continuing to fall, willing the pain to leave me. "I-- I don't know," I said, and laughed a little. 

She touched my arm, very gently. 

"We don't have to go on," she said. 

Lady Mara.

"I'm unwell," I said. "Not dead." And rolled both of us over. 

"Hey hey hey..." Erdi protested. 

"What?" I mumbled through the kisses. 

"Can't reach, you're too tall, you need to--" Her hands ran down my sides, seeking--Ah. 

I stripped off the much-abused undergarment.

As soon as it was gone she grabbed my head and hauled it down. 

I nearly lost myself right there, from the touch of her silken thighs.

I paused for a moment, enthralled. It is the sight of her that undoes me, skin like the velvet of flower petals, and the wet gleam of her mouth, the little gasps as her lips part. 

"Cyrelian," she gasped, straining to rub up against me. I was holding myself apart, seeking to prevent the inevitable. "Going to murder you if.. you.. don't. Hurry up." Her secret wet brushed me and she cried out at the noises I was making.

I dropped to kiss her and she rubbed anxiously against my belly. 

"I have no idea what I'm doing," I murmured, against her mouth.

I think that was the swiftest time I've ever had between confession and reconciliation. 

Her hand snaked between us to put all where it ought be.

She watched my face intently.

"Don't you dare," she threatened.

"Don't. Dare. What?" I asked. 

Her hands and thighs sought to still my hips; I am by far the stronger. I paused. 

"You keep going no matter what happens," she instructed. "Till I make you stop." 

"Hah." 

"No matter what," Erdi threatened.

She dragged me down again and I slid fully home. 

She gave a little shriek, and I cried out.

"Ahg," she panted. "This is gonna be--" 

She clawed at my hair-- too short to grip-- and hauled my head down again, sucking my tongue into her mouth in the same rhythm that we slapped together. 

I let go in a great hot rush but continued, obedient, till--

"Do not stop," she panted. "Don't-- don't make it different. Just--" 

Her eyes fluttered shut and she keened, the hot clenches nearly forcing me out. I gritted my teeth and continued, obedient to her request, hoping that I would-- 

\--she slipped her hand between us and began to rub herself, moaning-- and then it happened again. 

A little shriek, and-- again?

Ahh... now we were moving against each other for pleasure's sake, the first hot urgency gone.

This time when I went I fitted my lips to hers so I could scream down into her mouth. She shuddered everywhere.

"That was glorious," I said. 

"Dibella's mercy," she agreed, and kissed me.

We got up, shakily, to clean up as best we might and to put on what garments we had. 

"Will you not rest with me a little?" I coaxed. 

"Cyr," Erdi said, and stopped me as I went to take her back into an embrace. "I don't-- this is not..." She hesitated. Her lips firmed together. "I don't attach," she said, not unkindly. Watching my face closely. 

I nodded, wishing to demonstrate that I understood. 

But I did not.

I still do not. 

What I want from her I cannot have. I can never have.

I fall too easily.


	23. Cyrelian-- The Reckoning: Hjaalmarch 6

I fully expected a reckoning. 

Erdi tried to tell me. Erdi was making no sense to me. Erdi had given up on talking and had retreated to the other side of the tent to rest. 

I did not understand why she could not be beside me. My skin was keening loneliness. 

I was so tired. 

Maybe if I slept, I would understand.

"Hey!" Ahtar came in to glower at us. 

My whole body contracted, painfully. I gasped with the shock of it. 

"You two going to lie around all evening?" He scowled at me. "Camp chores need doing."

"And Lena's got dinner up. You gonna come and eat, or what?"

And then he advised us that our gear still needed attending to, and... something about arrows, and... 

Erdi's distancing of herself had pierced my heart, but I was sorely grateful for it now. 

And for my own weary grogginess: It is not hard to avoid looking culpable if all one can do is groan and yawn.

"Did you forget we were on our way here?" asked Lena, as soon as she saw me. 

Ra'zhinda thought it was all very funny. 

And it was especially amusing that I had completely failed to notice the arrival of the rest of the Khajiit caravan. Because they were all here. 

All of them. 

So just when had they-- I looked around at the number of tents and the roaring cookfire, and realized that there was no way that all of this could have been set up as I napped. Not in that scant half-hour. So they had been coming in when we had been-- 

Somewhat belatedly I turned around and noted the condition of the tent, with its flaps still kirtled to admit the breeze. Though it was well too late, I untied the tent flaps, letting them roll to the ground. Khajiit kept looking over at me and laughing. 

It was getting on towards evening and the wind was rising. Ahtar had vanished somewhere on his own business. 

I felt cold inside.

Ma'dran told me that the Dovahkiin had come up to camp long enough to retrieve Marcus and to get his hand seen to. The caravan was in luck-- this Marcus had some healing magick, and Ma'dran had struck a deal with him to get him to see to our wounded. Sheshemarjo was stalking about, whiskers bristling, outraged that Ma'dran had had to bargain in the first place.

"Wishing to settle one's terms is no matter for censure," said Ma'dran, disagreeing. "Nothing comes without cost." 

I asked what degree of talent this Marcus possessed, and where he had been trained, but the two of them did not know. 

Ma'dran did tell me that the Dovahkiin had recovered the use of his hand and said he could now fight. (Sheshemarjo did not agree with this assessment and had put the Dovahkiin in a bandage and a glove.) In fact, since the Dovahkiin and Marcus would be joining the caravan, Ma'dran had already put both of them on the duty roster. So, whether this Marcus' demurral had prompted by ruthless pragmatism or a more mercenary attitude, I cared not. I resolved to speak with him. 

When the Imperials came in, they put up their tents next to the Stormcloaks' at Sheshemarjo's request; it would be easier for him to attend to all of the wounded. Ma'dran commented that this would bring trouble. 

"Damn well better not be," snapped Ahtar, who had come up with them. 

The senior Stormcloak commented that one of the Imperials --the only non-Nord-- looked exactly like her cousin Olveg. 

And that was that. 

The Stormcloaks and Imperials even shared out what was left of the mead. With the consensus of all, the last bit of mead had gotten tipped out on the ground for Kyne, since the wind had been favorable to our arrows. 

Even Ma'dran's Khajiit were on edge, constantly glancing up-- no matter that Ma'dran had specifically set guards to watch the sky, and had made a plan for our evacuation into the brush of the swamp. Thankfully, Ma'dran had sent ahead for reinforcements from the Khajiit camp at Dawnstar; Kharjo and his soldiers, and one glance at them convinced me that they were professionals. Our duty rosters would no longer be worrisomely light.

I went to help see to the needs of the wounded; Sheshemarjo was kept busy making potions. 

One Imperial had lost an eye to a wing-swipe. He was lucky the claw had not taken his entire face. He was in a great deal of pain, but not fevered, and he was able to take a little broth.

The other wounded Imperial had a great tear along his scalp where the dragon had lifted him and a chunk of hair had torn loose. The near-scalping had saved him from being half-eaten, or perhaps dashed against the rocks. Unfortunately it appeared that his thigh was broken, a sobering injury. 

The Stormcloak soldier who bore a similar injury-- and not from battle, merely a fall from scaffolding-- now lay writhing in fever, near death.

I ensured that the other men's needs were tended and sat with the dying Stormcloak for a little while, the one who had so delayed the caravan. While the Stormcloaks did not like me, they were happy enough to take advantage of the respite-- and to go aside to talk amongst themselves, to try to decide what to do about him. 

The Stormcloak was struggling to whisper something, but when I bent my head down it was no more than "Mother... mother mercy... mother help me...mother mercy..." Clearly he did not know or care what I was. 

"Kyne?" I asked. "Mara?" 

He couldn't answer me. 

Kyne is not a god of ours, and I did not know her rites, so I sketched Mara's for him as best I could. He took no ease from it. I kept reaching for what healing-spells I could accomplish, just to ease his pain a trifle, but those spells sputtered and failed. I still had no magicka to spare, and I wondered uneasily about that. Some time had passed. The dying man gripped my hand so tight I could feel the bones grind together. A potion might have helped him, but we had none now, thanks in part to my greed. 

When the Stormcloak's friends got back, I put on gauntlets and helmet and went to go stand a half-hour guard shift so that one of the Khajiit could eat. 

And then I waited on the periphery of camp, for the reckoning, lest it come upon me unawares. 

Better to seek it out.

No reckoning came. 

Ahtar said nothing. 

He spared me the barest glance, his expression grim. "Get back to bed before you fall down," he ordered. "And take that armor off. You're not on the watch list tonight. Sleep." 

It was still light out, but I dared not disobey.

It was that night at the Embassy all over again; that same paralyzing cold circulating in my veins. I curled up under the bedding and lay still, waiting. 

The noises of the Khajiit camp were comforting to me. 

So long as there were others about, it would be all right. 

So long as it was not dark. 

So long as I did not let my attention drift or fall asleep. 

My heart was beating too fast, keeping me on the verge between exhaustion and terror. Erdi came in and spoke to me sharply, but I was too cold and slow to move. And I did not want to draw her into this. She sounded annoyed with me. The wall slapped back down against the ground with finality. I was left alone.

"Well?" Erdi demanded. "Don't just stare at me." 

I startled. She was just on the other side of the canvas tent wall, less than a couple of feet from my head. Ahtar rumbled an incomprehensible response. Had I stretched my arm to its full reach and pressed against the canvas, I could have touched him. 

"Go ahead and say it," Erdi added. Defiant. Truculent. I shivered. I had tried that approach. It had not ended well for me.

But all that Ahtar did was make a noise somewhere between a grumble and a grunt. I could hear him shifting about to settle himself more comfortably. "Just-- gimme that other bottle," he directed. I could hear the weariness in his voice. 

There was silence for a little while. 

Then Erdi said, in a diffident small voice: "Angry with me?" 

"Nah. Little bit irritated. Not too bad. Took a walk earlier." He slurped at his drink, noisily. "Helped." 

Erdi pitched her voice lower, embarrassed: "Did you really walk in right in the middle of--"

"Huh!" Ahtar smothered a sniggering laugh to a smirk. "Quite a sight," he observed. "Is-- ahh--" 

"Cyr's sound asleep," said Erdi. "I checked a minute ago. Do you think he noticed you come in?" 

"Doubt it," said Ahtar, still amused. "Threw a blanket down by the bedroll. Never looked up. Had his face in your neck." 

"He was chewing on my ears," said Erdi. "Ew.". 

"Aaah ha--" Ahtar chuckled. "Not that many elves yet? That's a big deal to them, they really go--" 

"Eeew!" 

"Oh, it gets lots weirder," Ahtar said, self-satisfied. 

Even whilst wrestling the inner snakes of fear and embarrassment, a spark of curiosity had been struck. What on Nirn was he referencing? Was it-- 

Or-- 

\--Another thought came to me. Just how many mer had he had?

Erdi muttered something. 

Whatever it was, Ahtar emphatically denied it. "Nuh. Don't think so." 

"I really am very sorry," said Erdi, making a strenuous effort to convey the right attitude. 

Ahtar bellowed a great laugh.

"No you ain't," he said. "Not once, not ever, have you ever been sorry. So ah--- you want some?" he asked her. "No? Think it's the last bottle. 'S good ale." 

Erdi declined, huffily. "I'm sorry if what I did made you think that I wanted to hurt your feelings," she muttered, churlish. 

Ahtar snorted. "Better," he said, relenting. "Honest. I'll take that." 

He drank and stifled a belch. "You ah-- sure this is the last?" 

"Um? Pretty sure," Erdi said, puzzled. "I could go check. You sure you're not mad?" 

"No more'n if the cat got my dinner," he said, lightly. Easily.

What.

"You...um. You all right?" Erdi asked, cautiously.

"Oh. Yeah," said Ahtar. "Been a great week. Namira rot my godsdamned captain for makin' me a murderer. Treason, insurrection. Losing my house, losing my wi-- gods, Jala. Oh my gods, if I hadn't sent her away-- Mariel said they barred our door before they burned--" 

His voice had been rising; he took a breath and recovered. 

"Havin' to deal with idiot Thalmor, havin' to deal with Khajiit, my old tribune giving me the evil eye like he's gonna put me on report again. Sleeping in this muck. That asshole nephew of mine showin' up and wantin' me to shake hands with those fucking pirate Argonians. Taggin' along with that portent-speakin' delusional Dovhamafuck. Been a great week." 

He tossed his empty bottle away into the brush; from the sound of it some fair distance.

"Capped off," Ahtar said, "By mythic beasts of legend comin' down from the sky and fuckin' everybody's shit up. Eating people in two fuckin' bites, that'll be a fun thing to see in my dreams. Kyne save us."

Erdi started to say something--

"Gods help me, girl," Ahtar said wearily. "Give me some credit. I don't care who you been fucking. I been young." He snorted. "Battle fever."

Erdi asked a question, too faint for me to hear.

"Anyways--" Ahtar shifted position. "Next time put the tent flaps down if you want private time, no offense but I really don't wanna see your pink bits. Heh. Not unless it's been a real bad day."

Erdi hesitated. 

I could hear her moving around as well. "Hmm-- mm. What, um.." With a little jolt, I recognized that rising inflection-- Erdi's teasing voice. "What counts as a real bad day?" 

This time Ahtar's laughter rang out across the camp. Wholehearted. Free. Easy. It was not like the sound-- something in me began to ease. To thaw. Erdi was laughing, too. He started to speak a few times but succumbed again, helplessly. 

"Maybe you shoulda got out here earlier," Ahtar eventually managed, wheezing. "Ha. Told you I took a walk." He settled down, and then-- "It's just battle fever, Erdi-- it'll take awhile for it to pass off. Don't wear yourself out, it'll just get sore." 

Erdi grumbled something. 

"Well, lucky you," said Ahtar. "I usually just feel kinda sick, afterwards. Gettin' old." 

There was a lengthy pause. 

"You --ah-- all right?" Ahtar asked. 

"No," said Erdi, thinly. "I'm really scared." 

"Good," Ahtar said, grimly. "Cause we were all bein' stupid. Damn elf nearly pulled my arm out of its socket, thought he was gonna run down there and get ate up too. Gods, girl. I think my heart still fuckin' hurts. We were lucky." 

"That's how it goes?" she asked, anxiously. "Battle, I mean." 

"No," said Ahtar, emphatically. "Oh no." 

Ah. That was a relief. 

"That was bad," he said. "Real bad. People don't usually get bit'n half. Oh, and I had a word with Ji'la about the kind of example she sets. Crazy little bitch. Woad-stained dick-out Forsworn're more forethoughtful. Think she'll come by to talk to you later." 

"Ah," said Erdi. And then: "Hold on a moment, I want to check--" 

I heard her getting up and hurriedly put my head back under the blanket. When Erdi came into the tent, she stood over me for a couple of minutes, then nudged me. When she touched my face, I shifted only slightly. 

She hmpf'd at me and went back out to Ahtar.

"Soo--" she asked Ahtar, cautiously. "Do the Thalmor know something about dragons that we don't? Or-- do you think Cyr does?" 

"Fuck if I know," said Ahtar. "He knows a lot of shit I don't." 

"Did you, um, happen to see it?" asked Erdi. "He-- it Shouted at us and he did the same to it and it staggered." 

"Some magicka thing?" Ahtar speculated, discouragingly. He didn't want to talk about this. Did he think maybe I knew something? I rather wished I did. 

"I dunno," said Erdi. "Like when he Shouted it went to its knees. The Dovahkiin was asking questions about Cyr-- a lot of them. About the Thalmor. Wants to know, um-- why we're with the Thalmor. What we're doing with them. I told him it was just the armor Cyr got for us but--" 

Ahtar said: "Maybe somebody who worries about what deals get made shouldn't be doing business with fuckin' pirates. Like that shit won't come home to roost." 

Erdi said, "He thinks that the Thalmor made all these dragons happen. Something about them eating the whole world up? And he wanted to know why one of the Thalmor wanted to help me and you-- all this stuff. I didn't think-" She sighed. "I tried to explain about Gil, and how he's just an idiot, and Cyr, but--" 

"Ehhh," muttered Ahtar, disgusted. "Don't let that asshole interrogate you." 

"Huh," said Erdi. "I think the Dovhakiin is kind of sweet." Her teasing voice again. 

Ahtar grunted derision. 

"He doesn't yell at me," she said. 

"Yeah?" said Ahtar. "That's cause he don't give a fuck if you get kilt." 

Erdi hmpf'd again. 

There was quiet. Then--

"We all right?" she asked Ahtar, in a plaintive little voice.

"Yeah, girl, we're all right," Ahtar said. 

Erdi murmured something, and that easy laughter rolled out of him again, this time softer. Lower. 

It was not the words said, so much as the quality of the sound of them; there was nothing in their banter that you hear from bad mer, or bad men. 

Balm. 

I sank downwards into heavy slumber.

I did not waken until I heard Ra'zhinda scream. 

They'd appeared in the middle of camp without warning; someone down and I couldn't see who. That snapping crack, that was magery, and I could taste the unfamiliar metallic tang-- ice spell! Or frost-- not something our people have much to do with; I did not know its counter. 

I could not find my armor, I had no sword, where was my bow-- I ran out to face this enemy in no more than my underclothes.

Ahtar was standing between the fight and the wounded men's tent, warding it whilst he sought for an opening. 

There were already several dead men at his feet. The Khajiit were engaged in a brutal struggle with the rest; we were winning, but--

Erdi was at the other side of the camp, doing battle with a mage. He was covered with some kind of frost-ward spell. I could see it melting and fading.

He stabbed at her, but she swiveled away from the stroke, and it skidded off her armor.

She slashed the mage on the backstroke, catching his arm, and he lost control of the spell he was charging up. Magicka flared up everywhere.

The Dovahkiin, right behind her, stood poised to take over, but it was unnecessary; Erdi whipped the dagger around…

\-- and stabbed the man through.

Ahtar pulled his stroke, and let her have the kill. 

The magicka flared up again, and the man was down. Erdi stood there, panting.

Ahtar called the all-clear. 

The fight was done.

Kharjo and Rashansheh surveyed the damage. 

Dead men were everywhere, but... I saw no dead Khajiit. The Dovahkiin's hand was bleeding freely, again, and he was standing by the medical tent complaining at it and at Sheshemarjo, who was insisting that he take his glove off. There were a couple of Khajiit waiting to be seen to, but Sheshemarjo hadn't even bothered to call Marcus over. 

Marcus was prowling about the edges of camp, seeking something, and cursing.

Kharjo was the one who noted that the better-armed amongst the dead all seemed to have the same tattoo, the same one that I had seen on the dead man I had found on the Brinehammer

Kharjo rolled one of the men over and I came to have a look.

I was still clad only in my underpants but by now I was dead to all shame.

I looked their mage over, carefully. 

"That is not a mage's mark or a cosmetic alteration," I said, cautiously. "It looks like a plain tattoo, but it's not work I'm familiar with." I looked at it again. "Expensive ink," I said. "But not something that we would do on Alinor, and it doesn't look like Iliac Bay work--" 

Marcus came and looked down at it, and cursed again. "I've seen it," he said, his face ugly with throttled fury. 

"Pirates," said Ahtar, more calmly than I would have supposed. He stood cleaning his sword in smug vindication. "Blackblood Marauders. Jaree-Ra's men. Guess they were comin' down here to bring you an advance on your pay?" He sheathed the sword with a snap, regarding Marcus and the Dovahkiin with disfavor. "Think we'll have a talk later," he advised his nephew. 

Instead of responding, Marcus glowered at the back of the Dovahkiin's head and made some remarks of his own. That worthy remained oblivious. Marcus went back to his self-appointed task, walking up and down and around the camp. He was blaming himself for having been sound asleep, earlier.

"What's he doing?" asked Erdi. 

"Mage-sniffing," I said. "At least, I think so. Kind of like tracking. He's trying to make sure another mage isn't out there with another bunch of thugs." 

Because it was clear that the mage with them had been Alteration/Illusion; they had all walked in here without so much as a stir of the breeze. And the Khajiit had not smelled or sensed them. That was disturbing. Sight/sound/smell/feel/taste all concealed. Good magery. An expenditure beyond the touch of ordinary pirates, I thought. 

Erdi asked if this mage-sniffing happened to be a talent which I could employ. 

"There's a knack to it," I said. "I don't have it." In any event, my magicka was a fine bare thread which would survive no usage. At least I could finally feel it coming back. I shook my head over the carnage. 

We had an unpleasant task before us.

"Bad times make for bad men," said the Dovahkiin, face grim and eyes deadened to leaden grey. His hand re-gloved, he went to get one of the empty carts, which the Khajiit were now hastily re-assembling from their packed goods. Ma'dran wanted the bodies dumped as far away from the caravan as possible. When we could, we would be striking camp and moving about two miles towards Dawnstar, or at least as far as the wounded could tolerate. Blood-soaked ground is not conducive to camp hygiene. 

After some debate, in which the Imperials were lively participants, it was decided that a stone cairn would be built near the old Imperial camp; the bodies would be buried in the rocks. There was not enough wood for an adequate pyre. So the Imperials would have an honor guard of pirates at their feet when they faced their god. After I got some hard looks from both Stormcloaks and Imperials, I announced that I would be helping to move the camp and to do the cooking and the necessary re-arrangments; sadly, I would not have time to help see to the dead or their rites. 

"Prick," muttered Marcus, as she shoved his way past me. He had finished his scouting and he and the Khajiit were busy stripping corpses and emptying pockets. "Now we've got to do all the hard--" 

"Are you mandated to report Talos worship?" I asked him, snidely. "No? I didn't think so." I smiled, but not pleasantly. "Since I'm pretty sure this is your mess, 's far's I'm concerned, you two can go clean it up." Of course this was a lie-- each Justiciar attends to his or her own particularized orders and duties, and mine will never have anything to do with Concordat enforcement. 

Marcus said a few more filthy words which I chose to ignore. 

The Dovahkiin caught my eye, and nodded, to signify his appreciation of my courtesy. At least someone recognized it. 

Lena made a general announcement and requested that the able-bodied who were not on watch go out and forage. We had more mouths to feed, and the fight had spilled and wasted some of our scant food supplies.

Ahtar and I did not intend to flush a king elk; we had been trying for a tender yearling, but--

Skyrim's herbivores are just as dangerous as its predators. Particularly in this season, when the males bugle and parade and stomp. They are territorial beasts, to be sure.

Thankfully I got a good clean shot and we made the kill. The sable armor kept Ahtar from worse than minor bruises. 

We dressed the carcass out in near-silence, until I could tolerate it no longer. 

"Don't want to talk," said Ahtar, after I made a couple of futile attempts to begin. 

His face was set and grim, though whether it was from anger or concentration on our task I could not say. Field dressing an ordinary elk is unpleasant hot work and this one was huge. Flies deviled us and in the end we were left as dirty and sticky as if we had shared in the corpse-handling.

Ma'dran and Lena were pleased when we returned with the loin quarters wrapped in hide. Lena sent a few more helpers down to fetch the rest. Ma'dran even agreed to give me more soap. 

"Filthy job," remarked Ahtar, and suggested that we go down to the beach to clean up. The expression on his face suggested mild irritation; it was yet another chore, and the Sea of Ghosts is cold. But I had been watching him out of the corner of my eye the while, and his shoulders and hands held a new tension that was present nowhere in his voice. 

Well. I had known it would be coming. Whilst my immediate fears as to my own safety had been assuaged-- had I really believed he would hurt me?-- I was still filled with trepidation. I was not looking forward to this conversation. 

I waited until Ma'dran had to go deal with the next demand on his attention, and told him quite casually that Ahtar and myself wouldn't be coming back for some time. 

Somewhat absently, Ma'dran agreed.

Even so, I didn't look at Ahtar until we were well clear of the camp. The wild horses scattered at our approach; proof enough we were alone. And we could see for miles. The beach was empty. 

In truth I didn't dare to face Ahtar until I after I had bathed myself and cleansed my gear; always that is the first priority. Always. 

My hands were shaking. 

The wind was out of the north. It was barely cool, but I was bitterly cold. 

Once I had fully exhausted all reasonable excuses for delay, I turned to Ahtar, and began to speak--

He cut me off: "How much time do you wanna waste talkin'?"

None, as it happened; my arms and hands decided for me. I grabbed the backs of Ahtar's arms and we were kissing as hotly as if we had never stopped. But-- I did not wish to yield. I stubbornly refused it. 

Ahtar tried to move closer, to rub up against me. I could feel his cockhead trailing wet and heat across my belly, but at each contact I pushed myself back, moving fractionally out of range. Could I tease him that way? With my body's heat-- or the whisper-thin currents of magicka which run along the surface of every living creature's skin, that pool below the navel, could I spark that? 

I led him this clever little dance until he tried to break my grip. I was in the better posture, and leveraged my grip to force his hands down, to maintain that hair-thin gap between us. He yielded a trifle, and I rewarded him by taunting him with the furze that thickens at my groin. When he jolted I leaned down hard against his wrists, denying my body even as I ceded all of my mouth, moaning, hoping to elicit some cry in return. 

Ahtar fought me with breathless, soundless laughter, licking up into my mouth and stealing my tongue; suckling at it and grabbing quick breaths only at my cries. 

He sought to evade my little restrictions with the quick light steps of a dancer or duelist. When he tried to lure me in by lifting his head aside, I bit at him, catching his lower lip. I devoured his chin, his upper lip-- as he continued to turn away, his cheek. I pressed my face against his and wrestled his chin back down to suck at his mouth again, roughly. To distract him, I gave my magicka streamlets a little flick. 

Never let it be said that I am not gracious in victory. 

As soon as the ragged gasp tore from him I released him, nuzzling softly at his neck whilst he stood panting harshly. The muscles in his arms and legs were jumping. From the bounding pulse I could feel at his groin, I could tell he'd nearly broken. 

"Wait," Ahtar husked, "wait." He caught my hips and held them still. I subsided. 

We stood, melded together. For a moment. 

Longer. 

Enough for some of the heat between us to dissipate.

Then Ahtar kissed me very gently and let his hands stroke up my back to my neck, my shoulders. He blew out his breath in a happy sigh: "Whooh. That was fun."

Hm. I let him have his kiss, but I pushed us apart again. 

"That all it is?" I demanded, even as my hand began to serve him. 

He closed his eyes as he thrust into my grip, and I thought him lost in pleasure.

His eyes opened for a second. "No," he whispered. And: "I don't know! I--" And then, even more quietly: "Can't!--I can't think. I need this. Please." He gasped again silently as I let my wrist twist in my loose slow movements as he moved slickly in my grasp. "I think," I said...

"I begin to think I need further instruction," I said. 

And I knelt to examine him more closely, rubbing him with both my hands.

He was happy to provide it with exacting thoroughness, though at one point he abruptly ceased talking.

He rubbed at the back of my neck and then cupped my head, supporting its weight to make it easier for me. Then he grunted--silently, of course-- and patted me urgently. No need; I could feel the pressure rising in him; he was so thick and burgeoning that I could scarcely keep my mouth on him. I gripped his buttocks and groaned thickly, to call his pleasure to me; and suckled deeply as it finally spilled out of him and into me. Wave after wave of pleasure flowing into me with each little jolt as I swallowed it down. 

I leaned against his thigh and gasped for two sobbing breaths, letting the tears roll out of my eyes for just that moment. Then I wiped my face against his skin and stood up, shakily. He drew me in. 

"Aahh," he said, almost reprovingly. "I thought you went, there." 

"Almost," I agreed. I still didn't have my breath. 

"You, ah--" he paused. "Get anything from Ma'dran other than soap?" 

What? 

"No," I advised, and yelped. He'd slid to his knees and taken me right down his throat.

He patted my thigh and looked up at me. "Don't wanna tease you," he said. "I know how you get. So--"

He pressed forward again, nose almost all the way to my belly, hand working swiftly. 

"Aghh," he stopped, and said with disgust. "It's starting to rain." He bent back to his work and slapped my thigh: hurry up.

I did not think I could oblige, but he did something deliciously obscene with his tongue and then the pads of his fingers. I shattered in little, embarrassing yips, threshing roughly enough that I slipped loose and my seed spattered over him; he had to catch me back in his mouth.

"Get up here," I demanded, and licked his face and kissed at him and demanded until Ahtar opened his mouth for me and I got the full taste and scent of him; of us, the raw musk and the sharp taste of semen and now the taste of the water running down, oddly warm and sweet. I could feel it pattering cold on my back; his hands rubbed over the cold wet and the gooseflesh at my nape and I sighed, my hands locked at his waist. 

We broke apart and I rested my cheek against his. 

"You're crying," I said, with surprise. And so was I. 

"Yeah," he said, roughly. "Takes me that way sometimes. Give me a minute." 

I closed my eyes and bowed my face into his neck, bracing my weight against his. After a few minutes he cleared his throat and patted me. I didn't move. 

"Think that's a dragon over there," he said. 

"Mm." I didn't open my eyes. 

"Ships coming," he said. "Pirates maybe. Or Stormcloaks. I can never tell the difference. Crappy damn boats." 

" 'kay," I said, drowsily. "Lemme know when they land." 

"Wild--" he tugged at my arm. "Wild animals. Scary big fuckin' grass-eating animals, antlers and shit. Come on." 

"No," I said, and held on tighter. 

"My feet are goin' numb," he said, patiently. "You can't go to sleep like this. We'll fall over. And it's fuckin' raining. I'm cold." 

I yawned. 

"Thalmor patrol up there," he said, very quietly and seriously. My eyes opened, because I had to look. Pressed so close against him, I could not conceal that fear-spasm. 

"Well, that got your attention," Ahtar said, happily. 

"You're a shit," I said, conversationally, breaking away. He was right, it was time to rinse off and clamber back into our mouldering-wet armor and go back. Still-- I looked to Ahtar: "That's not funny," I said, evenly. "You have absolutely no idea what they're capable of." 

Ahtar didn't say anything. 

After a moment he came over for me to assist him with his cuirass-straps. 

"Don't bother doing it all up," he said. "Let's just sit in the tent tonight." 

"Pirates permitting," I said, and he growled and had me make it fast. 

"Do you hear voices?" I asked suddenly. He regarded me suspiciously, but paused. We both listened intently. 

"The rain," I said, doubtfully. 

"We'll have the shore patrol check it out," he agreed. 

We went back up to camp and so advised Ma'dran, and he agreed to send someone out. I slept through that evening and did not hear Ahtar and Erdi come in; I woke to take the early morning guard-shift. 

Nothing of moment occurred overnight, but the next morning's scouts came back in a hurry, and--


	24. Cyrelian--Turf War: Hjaalmarch 7

"Hope this works," Ahtar said. "Cause I feel really fuckin' stupid." 

"We've been over this," I said. "It works. It should hold your head up just fine." I hoped. "Just-- don't fight it. Let it do its job." 

After I had outlined my plan, Ahtar had explained that he was not a good swimmer. In fact, he was not any kind of a swimmer, and since this plan depended on us surfacing on the other side of the island-- 

"Let's just hope we can mostly walk along the shoals," I said.

After I had mentioned that I thought I'd heard voices, Marcus gone out on beach patrol with Omir, using his mage-sniffing trick-- and once they'd gotten out on the sand bar, the Khajiit's keener ears had led them onward. 

"Found them," Marcus reported, still a bit out of breath, his armor streaming water. "We found them. You were right-- I think they've killed everyone!" 

He pointed at a smudgy mass on the horizon. "Have to swim to get there," he said. "Down along the sandbar ridge and on the sea side of that stuff"-- Illusion set-spell, maybe? "Didn't realize that was a whole island beyond those rocks--" he gasped. "Should have dumped the armor." He bent over and coughed deeply, wheezing. 

I studied the terrain he'd sketched out and frowned. It would not be much fun approaching the shipwreck from land-side, not unless one favors arrows in the face as entertainment. On the other hand, those rocks would serve as cover for our archers if they kept to them, assuming that the pirates could oblige us by exposing themselves to our fire. They wouldn't-- they had the slightly heeled-over deck and the ship's cabin to shelter them. 

But perhaps they could be convinced... 

I began to strip my moonstone armor off and pull the padding out of it, reverting it to marine kit. I had Erdi do the same for hers. 

She hesitated and said: "I can swim but I don't think I can manage all this in the water--" It was certainly heavier than what she was used to. 

"Take it all off then," I said, not even glancing up. I took my own collar-and-pauldrons and popped apart the clasps to widen it out to its further extent. I gave it to Ahtar; his sable armor would encumber him to uselessness in the water. It just barely fit. Erdi's armor, similarly, would just fit me if extended. The others stared at me as if I performed some kind of miracle. 

"What?" I demanded. "Did you think it was individually fitted?" 

Marcus had pulled a boot off and was pouring water out of it. His waterlogged chainmail-and-leather was going to seriously impede him. 

"Stop fooling around and take all that crap off," said Ahtar to him. "Stupid to go in with all that on. You want to drown? Or not be able to run?" 

"Why do I always have to run?," Marcus whined. "You can run better than I can. Or he can," he said, pointing to the Dovahkiin. "His hand is--" 

"Can you cut a man in half lengthwise?" asked Ahtar, too patiently. 

Marcus looked to his Dovahkiin for rescue, but that worthy nodded his agreement with the current plan, and weighed in. The Dovahkiin's great preference would be for Marcus to be up at camp out of danger, but he'd settle for Marcus being the mostly-out-of-danger signal runner. Besides, he said, we might need a wall kicked apart or a hatch door stomped in. The Dovahkiin has feet like a draft horse has hooves; I could well imagine he could do it. He forestalled further complaint by Marcus by showing off his injured hand; the edges of the wound had drawn together and closed; between Marcus' healing and healing potions he'd consumed, it looked a couple of weeks old rather than days. 

"It'll do," said the Dovahkiin, satisfied. And: "I will keep with the archers until there is need. A bow will serve as well as a sword for this work." 

Neither Marcus nor myself could cast a signal-spell, and the muffle spell over the shipwreck would impede any call or whistle. 

Marcus subsided. He began to disrobe. 

"So what're the pirates wearing this season?" Erdi asked Marcus, idly. "Oh! My. That's-- um.. very--" 

"Shut up," said Marcus, irritated. "I don't want to get my arms all cut up."

Ahtar snorted. 

"Remind me again why we're gettin' involved in a turf war amongst a bunch a bandits?" he asked. 

"We're not bandits," Marcus reminded him, testily. "Or pirates," he added, anticipating the next rejoinder. 

"Oh, yeah, that's right," said Ahtar. "It ain't a wanton act of depredation if'n you two assholes stick a banner on it as a gift to that incompetent fucker Hoagssen. Who will without a doubt either piss it away or wipe his ass with it. 'Scuse me." 

In the wake of the Dovahkiin's resounding silence, Ahtar went up the hill towards the Khajiit to discuss the plan. 

Marcus sighed. 

"Hey, at least when you get him angry enough he doesn't comment on your wardrobe choices," said Erdi. She used my hand to pull herself up from her cross-legged position, and mock-glared down at Marcus. "Fuck IS that?" she mimicked. 

"Nibenese comfort woman," I suggested, and stood up myself, to look out over the water. 

Marcus glowered up at me. "I don't have to take that from a guy wearing that kinda tattoo," he said, testily. 

I rubbed my forehead, where the caste mark passes. Lessons on Altmeri societal-signals would be lost on him, I thought; and in any event the time for banter was over. 

"I hope my plan works," I said grimly. I was beginning to second-guess myself and think that it was a bad idea for us to divide our paltry forces. On the other hand, the plan held the merit of being relatively simple: the Khajiit would provoke an attack--

\--The Blackblood Marauders would, with luck, come out from their cover to at least partially engage; the Khajiit would pretend to retreat to draw the pirates out towards the rocks--

-And the rest of us would take the opportunity to attack from the sea-sheltered side of the island, hopefully providing a disruptive and demoralizing force coming from an unexpected direction--

At which point the Khajiit would cease their half-hearted retreat and press forward their full offensive.

We hid behind the rise to observe. There were dead bodies visible on the deck. 

Ahtar shook his head as he counted the pirates. He thought there were too many. 

"Battle's same's dickin'," he muttered, unhappy. "Half-in's same's as all-in, only worse." 

He gestured to the ship: Let's go.

Erdi froze at just the wrong moment. 

I may have been a little sharp with her, as best I could be via almost-silent hissings and gestures. It worked; she followed.

Ahtar stepped methodically from rock to rock and began to head for the ship without comment. 

Marcus, less encumbered, vaulted down the rocks well ahead of us, and scaled the ship's ladder with dagger already to hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the bright arterial spray as I paused to identify my own target.

On the shore, near the ship, big man in a leather doublet, just starting to turn around:

I ran up and engaged. The man was startled and had no chance to respond; he took the first hit and could only weakly parry the second. He was already falling sideways; I didn't trouble to run him through. I headed for the ship.

Ahtar, no longer right behind me, had paused for a moment. A few more of the pirates came from around the bulk of the ship. I saw Ahtar neatly chop a pirate's shoulder; the arm dropped into the water, followed by the slumped body of the man himself.

Erdi was staying behind Ahtar. 

Good, she was following instructions. 

The men on the ship had all noticed us now and had turned to defend themselves. The rest of us were going to have to force our way onto the deck.

"Go!" shouted Ahtar. 

Marcus had already jumped down from the ship to execute the second half of our plan, but had stopped to engage another foe on the shore, dagger against broadsword. Ahtar stepped in and hacked the pirate down.

"I told you to run!" Ahtar snapped. The pirates who had gone to shoot at the Khajiit had now recognized they were under attack and were returning to deal with us. 

Marcus grimaced and obeyed, disengaging from the fight and running back down towards the water.

I ducked the sword-stroke of the man guarding the ladder and blood spattered everywhere at my return hit.

He was a brave man; when he saw what faced him he didn't even try to go on the offensive; he just stood and parried, buying his crewmates time.

I slashed at him again to draw him out, tearing through into his boot. 

Still, he refused.

But after three or four more cuts he was tiring and soon mistook a lunge for a feint.

I rammed the sword up under his tunic-- I think I may have caught the great vessel of the thigh. He fell sideways into the water and our path was clear. Ahtar turned around, ran back down behind us, and stopped another pirate from approaching. They were coming along the beach now as well as over the ship; we were going to have to change ground…

Erdi and I ran up onto the boat to charge the archers, who represented the real threat to the Khajiit.

This was short work; Erdi killed one of them even before I could get to him. 

Ahtar followed us onto the deck just as I took down the last man.

We watched as the Dovahkiin, who had headed the Khajiit counter-attack, was mopping up the remaining two pirates on the shore side of the boat. From the raucous feline din coming from the rocks, I was reasonably certain that the rest of the pirates, those who had unwisely pursued the retreating Khajiit archers, had succumbed to that folly.

"Want some help?" Erdi called. 

The Dovahkiin waved us back. 

The outcome was never in doubt. The pirate joined his compatriots.

A moment later the Dovahkiin came trotting up to us, despite the arrows still sticking up out of his flesh. 

"Umm..." said Erdi. "I think you're going to feel that later." 

The Dovahkiin nodded, favoring us with a white-toothed grin: "Do more yet?--" he gestured with his sword toward the Icerunner. 

"I shouldn't think so," I opined. "Several of them came out towards the end and left the hatch standing open. Likely no one's down there. Even so, we're going to leave them to the Khajiit. Kind of dark down there." Khajiit have excellent night vision. 

"Don't!" I said sharply. "Leave those to Sheshemarjo and his arrow-spoons." The Dovahkiin ignored me, cracking the shaft of the arrow stuck in his thigh. He was lucky; it was at a shallow angle and nowhere near anything threatening. "Come, help," he commanded Erdi. She set her hands behind his and forced the arrow forward through his flesh as he hissed. The broken shaft pulled out of his flesh easily. "Still whole," he commented, holding the bloody arrowhead up and throwing it away. "Clean as might be," he said, indifferent to the blood trickling down his thigh. Likely he was right; and Marcus could easily deal with it later. 

"I don't think we should do that to the one in your knee," said Erdi, doubtfully. 

The Dovahkiin looked at it and grunted. "Break the shaft," he said. The Dovahkiin likely could finger-crush small pebbles, but even so the two of them couldn't quite get the right angle. I came to assist. The arrow took quite a bit of pressure before it finally snapped. 

"Uh!" he cried, and wavered. 

Erdi clutched at his head and I leaned my weight forward to bolster him. So this Dovahkiin was mortal, I thought, as he gulped great breaths in an effort not to faint. 

"Take a moment," I counseled. 

The Dovahkiin panted, his hairy skin rivuleting sweat. After a minute or two he cast his gaze appreciatively upward towards Erdi, who was still cradling his head to her bosom. He said something, and in response Erdi flashed him that little smile that she and Marcus share-- the one that grants a display of teeth. And she let go. Just in time, I got my shoulder beneath him; and the Dovahkiin grabbed me to keep himself from falling. He used me to leverage himself upright. 

"Where's Ahtar?" Erdi asked, looking about.

I pointed to the deck. 

"I had better go to him," I said, abandoning the Dovahkiin to Erdi's cruel mercies.

Someone you know?" I asked Ahtar, as he straightened, the mask of grief quickly settling into something harsher. We heard screams-- not Khajiit-- coming from below decks, and Ra'shansheh's bellow of laughter. 

"We're good!" Ra'zhinda called. 

"Yeah." Ahtar rubbed his wet face. He grimaced and snorted, then walked to the rail to spit. "Couple decades ago. One of my first cadre, back even before Elinhir. Used to be this scrawny little Nord kid. He didn't stay with us; he got transferred back to the Niben. Surveyor. Good with maps and such. Guess they needed that there." He shrugged at my wonderment: "I don't forget a face." 

"You want to take him down to shore and give him a real grave with the rites?" I asked. Truthfully I hoped not; the man had been dead awhile. Moving him would be dreadful, and re-opening the cairn would be a chore. 

"It's all right," Ahtar said distantly, looking out over the rail. "Been a long time since those days." He looked about at the carnage. "Pull the medallions on the soldiers and then another mass grave, right here on the beach?" he suggested. "Dawnstar likely has an Arkay priest." He frowned at the pirates. "They'll have to go in too," he said. "Don't want the corpse-sickness or revenants. Think we'd better do it?"

Erdi had been going around ensuring that all of the fallen pirates were in truth deceased. She returned after sluicing her arms and her blade in the water. 

"I still can't believe you're going to fight with that ridiculous thing," I said. 

"Why not?" she said. "The balance is right for me. And Marcus said it wasn't good for him, so I could just take it." 

"Yeah?" I asked. "How're you going to carry it around?" 

Ra'zhinda stuck her head out of the hatch. 

"Somebody needs to come down here," she said, unwontedly serious. 

With a groan Ahtar straightened up from the rail. "No," he said to Erdi and myself. "I kinda think I know what's down there." He waved the Dovahkiin back as well. "That water'll be filthy," he said. "You don't want that Sheshemarjo mad at you; he's fuckin' scary when he's angry. Just keep watch." 

The Dovahkiin agreed. He was standing upright and moving about now, but limping heavily. 

We waited. 

Ahtar re-emerged. If anything the lines on his faces were even harsher. He surveyed the Dovahkiin, grimly. Then-- to Marcus: "You. You get the fuck down there and take a look and then tell me what you want to have to do with pirates goin' forward. Because I wanna hear it." 

He looked back to the Dovahkiin: "I presume you've seen this kind of shit already. So you should know better." He assisted Marcus inside with a quick shove between the shoulder blades. I winced.

The Dovahkiin made a soft noise of pain and cautiously lowered himself to sit on a crate with his leg held awkwardly out in front of him. "Kyne forgive," he said softly, under his breath. "All over our fair land, I have seen it." 

"The first time that you've been the cause of it?" I dared. 

The Dovahkiin let out his breath, slowly: "Would that were so." He looked at me, measuringly. "What now, Justiciar--do your kindred own no deed-regret?" He looked about him at the carnage and at the rotting Imperial corpses. "To know what ill-wreakings one has wrought, and yet go on-- I think this is the true death of souls." 

I was startled into an admission: "It is the sacrifice we are directed to make," I said. "For the good of the Dominion: I will abide the Oath. Though it mean my death. Though it means my soul's death or binding. Though--" 

The Dovahkiin made a noise of disgust, to interrupt me. "Are young, if faith yet brings comfort," he said, bitterly. 

I had no response. 

We waited. 

I was settling into an odd, detached mood. All felt unreal. The Dovahkiin's wet eyes reflected back the unearthly blue of the sky just above the sea. Erdi came to sit beside me on the deck. We three became so still that the carrion birds dared come close to perpetrate their evil doings. I did not have the will to see them off. 

Marcus bolted up out of the hatch and was sick on the decking. 

"You couldn't make it to the rail?," I asked. Marcus ignored this, as it deserved. He straightened up and stood for a few moments with his eyes closed, panting, sucking in the fresher air. Just as abruptly he recovered: "There's a few people still alive down there," he advised us. "Shit," he said, looking over the Dovahkiin's injuries. "You can't walk, can you? I'm tapped out," he explained. 

"I will bide," said the Dovahkiin, grimly. 

"We have a couple of litters back at the camp," I said, trying not to groan. More delay. 

Just about then Ahtar came up with the first of the captives in his arms, a second clinging to his waist. Erdi cried out in shock. The woman holding on to Ahtar-- the one who was still capable of responding-- covered her eyes with shame. She was all rags, bruises and sores, covered mostly by her own waste. 

"Hey! None a that," said Ahtar. "No need to be upsettin' nobody. Gonna be all right. Let's get all these folks up top here and then maybe you and Ra'zhinda can help them get cleaned up?" 

I stood up, but Ahtar waved me back down. "Cats have the rest of 'em," he said. And, dropping his voice somewhat-- "You don't wanna see it." He went back to assist, and soon we had four more filthy, starving hostages on the deck. 

After some discussion, I was sent up to the camp to fetch Sheshemarjo. 

Getting the pirates' hostages off the ship and back to the mainland proved a nightmare, but we persisted, and had them back at camp before sundown. One of the women kept keening and searching for her child-- it was heartrending. I asked, but Ahtar shook his head. "Better you don't know," he said. 

Erdi wanted to know why the pirates had even bothered keeping these people alive. 

Ra'zhinda shrugged. "They bring a price in Morrowind, bad condition or no. Or perhaps they are to ransom, as hostages." She shook her head. "And of course the--" 

Ra'zhinda looked aside from my gaze. She fell silent. 

Talos-heretics are worth a bounty. I had heard this rumor before. It is only a rumor. We have no interest in taking human prisoners. Supposedly, Northwatch Keep is our holding pen. But it stands empty, with no more than a security detail maintained there. There was no point in arguing with Ra'zhinda over it, of course. Not in the midst of all of this, while she was so upset. 

But I made a mental note, because pernicious rumors will cost us good allies if not debunked. 

Exceedingly pernicious rumors. 

I blew out my breath: "We Altmer have nothing to do with slave-taking," I said, as evenly as I could. I was angry. "It is antithetical to our entire way of life." 

No one said anything at all for a long time.

Khajiit have an answer of their own to acts like these: they answer with defiance and their own maddened glee. Ma'dran had gone beyond mere fury into a flat-eared cold rage. He was talking to Ji'la about that evening's rites: "By Azurah, we will not bow our heads to the Prince of Schemes; I say we cry them to the Sands--" 

I asked what was going on, and Omir explained: "It is a week to Witches' Festival," he said. "A dangerous time, when necromancers and the eaters of the dead roam." He shrugged. "There are half a hundred dead we counted on that ship. Perhaps more. Too many to bury. Too much mess to take them to the cairn. So we will hold a wake and sing them home instead." 

The dead had been stacked, horrifyingly in the small cabins, almost to the ceiling. And that was not the worst of it-- Marcus just shook his head. He didn't want to discuss it. He had not recovered. He was sitting in Sheshamarjo's tent sipping sek and trying to eat hardtack; his magicka would not renew absent sustenance. 

Omir said the Khajiit were looking forward to a good party, it had been a rough trip, but-- his tail was slapping at the ground--

Lena asked: Were we absolutely certain we had rounded up all of the pirates?

Omir thought that we had not. Ra'zhinda thought that we had. This prompted a general argument amongst the Khajiit.

Enough," said Ma'dran. "Khajiit will go armored and stand watch. Weapons to be kept at hand. Let the pirates hear our music and fear us. If they come to us--" his lips drew back-- "Khajiit will be ready." He made a tch'ing noise and a little gesture of claws near his throat.

Ji'la laughed. Ji'la liked Ma'dran's suggestion. Ji'la was tired of chasing through the swamp looking for pirates. Pirates coming to the camp was far more convenient for the killing, yes? Ji'la looked at the tent she had just come out of, where she and Ra'zhinda had established the former hostages. 

"Maybe we will not kill pirates," she said, and her brief little grimace was not a smile. "Not-- immediately. Yes? Ji'la has had some ideas in that regard." She sniffed. "Music will be an excellent lure." 

And with that she went to Ma'dran's hoard to unearth whatever the Khajiit might have for musical instruments.

"Don't really feel like celebratin'-- hard to get some things out of your head," said Ahtar, grimly. 

I was not regretting having not gone below decks. Sheshemarjo had overseen the bathing and the transport of the survivors and was now dealing with them in the cook's tent. Ji'la and the Stormcloak leader were assisting him as well as a few of the other Khajiiti females; Shesemarjo did not want me back there at all. Marcus would be permitted in only on sufferance, once his magicka had renewed enough for him to be of use. For now Marcus was prowling the camp, notwithstanding Sheshemarjo's command to rest.

I spoke with the remaining men-- the Stormcloaks were appalled by the condition of the former hostages, and downhearted that the compatriot they had tried so hard to keep alive had died. They were somewhat cheered to be only a few miles from Dawnstar and their journey home. 

The Imperials--who had been animatedly discussing their own options-- were happy that the Khajiit were willing to hold a wake for the honor of their dead, soldiers and sailors alike. 

"What's the name of the cat-god?" one of the men asked. 

"Khenarthi," I said. "The hawk that speeds souls home." 

The men were greatly pleased by my response.

Ra'shansheh was very pleased with himself. The Stormcloaks had divided the possessions of their dead friend amongst themselves. After hearing from Ra'zhinda about his role in the pirate-battle, they had gifted him the man's horned helmet. Ra'shansheh thought it very distinguished. 

Ahtar chose to remain silent. 

Ra'shansheh said he would dance in it, to honor the gift of its bequeathing, and to honor the spirit of his late gift-friend. More quietly, Ra'shansheh told me that the Khajiit would be singing and dancing the souls of the dead pirates home as well. Not for the pirates' benefit, he hastened to add. For the sake of the people who lived in Dawnstar. Who knew what trouble pirate revenants might wreak? 

Ah. For the Khajiit, then, this was a matter of public health and safety.

Once Lena said the camp was ready, Ra'zhinda clapped her hands and demanded that the music begin.

The Dovahkiin offered Marcus the lute, but he demurred. 

With a shrug, the Dovahkiin began to tune it; the Stormcloak leader and Lena joining him. I would not say that the Dovahkiin is a good player, but after a few moments he came over to discuss with Lena and the Stormcloak, and they began anew. He took the rhythm-- perhaps more enthusiastically than accurately-- leaving the others to carry the melody. I thought, watching this, that Marcus had done some good work; the Dovahkiin was limping, but not as badly as earlier. And his hand seemed not badly impaired. 

The song they were playing was dismayingly familiar; I sat near the fire and feigned ignorance. Imperials and Stormcloaks alike were grinning at me. When they outlawed Talos worship in the empire, there was an immediate decline in hymnsinging-- but a corresponding surge in drinking-songs. 

It is difficult to legislate against drinking-songs.

Rashansheh is a remarkably vigorous and adept dancer, even in iron plates. Adept. Aesthetically pleasing, not so much. 

But his immediate joy was contagious. Other Khajiit joined in.

Even Kharjo and his soldiers took part. 

I took advantage of another segue into Talos-fawning taverna music to disappear into our shared tent. As I went inside I could hear the Dovahkiin coaxing Marcus-- come and sing. Marcus was refusing. And the Dovahkiin couldn't go on with playing; he need to sit and his hand was too sore. 

So Ra'zhinda chose to begin playing Khajiiti music instead. It is a wholly different scale; it is oddly pitched-- it is not euphonious to our ears at all. And then she and Kharado started singing. The other Khajiit joined in the chorus, with howling on the descant. 

And then, of course, the drumming and dancing. 

There is a reason why the Dominion puts Khajiiti musicians in our vanguard. Or-- in our rearguard. Really, in whichever direction is leeward, because Khajiiti music at its best is horripilating. At its worst-- I winced at another dissonant chord and Omir's ecstatic ululations. 

Ahtar came in--his face told me everything I needed to know about how humans experienced this noise-- and asked if I were going to go out and watch the Khajiit dance.

We found better things to do.

The tent flap rustled and I froze, until Ahtar patted me: relax. 

"Do you mind?" he said. 

I heard a disgruntled little huff. And then Erdi muttered some trivial-but-lengthy complaint about Marcus, which was lost to much of my hearing by another triad of screaming yowls. Khajiiti singing is intended to reach the very moons. 

I am quite sure it does. 

"Yeah?" said Ahtar, to her in a brief lull. "I don't care. Get out of here. Go bother Ma'dran. See if your Dovahbuddy wants to chat. Keep an eye on Marcus, make sure he eats something. Find something to do." He lowered his mouth back to mine. After another moment, he glanced up. "You still here?" 

Erdi grabbed some portion of her belongings and flounced out, letting the tent-flap slap against the ground.

"Good," was Ahtar's only comment, later, as that horrendous cacophony reached new levels of pain. "Nice and loud." 

He glanced up for a second, assessing me. 

He shook his head. "Gonna need to be." 

He went back to his work.

I had forgotten. I had gotten lost in the moment. My thumb had been rubbing there, over the bump and ripple of scar, because I found it so pleasing to my hand. Gratifying. Arousing, even, that he carried one of our House marks; that he chose to maintain the sigil that--- How-- how had I forgotten?

HOW?!

I would have collapsed, had Ahtar not held me up; he held me as I keened and whimpered and sobbed, for all as if I were one of those poor lost souls in the cook's tent; hushing me and rocking me.

The gods witness, and I know, that my shame and grief was only a tiny pebble cast upon a mountain of ill-deeds that had been done to him, to his people, by myself and my kindred. He says that comforting me is no great burden. But I know. It is not meet for me to ask him to carry this for me. 

But he does. 

He still does.


	25. Cyrelian--Breaking Down: Hjaalmarch 8

We had shared a delusion, the three of us, as to how this venture might go: a few days' escorting these harmless merchants through Hjaalmarch swamps and along its beaches until we reached the port of Dawnstar. It should have been a trivial errand for us, really. 

I had eked out half a winter and its following summer in a solitary cave in the hills above Dragon Bridge, speaking to no one and living on what I could hunt and the meager produce I could glean. Ahtar'd had a decade of patrolling the hills and valleys of Haafingar and had spent each morning chivvying recruits up and down the road that runs along the spine of the great mountain. And the drudging life of a Blue Palace maid-of-all-work had gifted Erdi the stamina to run the two of us into the ground, easily. 

None of us had counted on our employer running out of food and drink; or the constant wet mildew of everything including our feet; the blisters and sores; the midges and the leeches and the sandy dirt everywhere... we were wearing out. 

Dragons, bandits; pirates spawning from nowhere to attack us for no reason; and the continual screams of the dying man, now mercifully silent-- but supplanted by that poor damned hostage wailing for her dead child. No surprise that we were wearing out.

"Wondered when that was gonna happen," murmured Ahtar, at the next lull in the Khajiiti music. 

He continued to hold my head, patting me until I began to stir on my own. I stammered out some apology; his mark, the Thalmor, my wretchedly short and self-serving memory-- Ahtar shook it off and soothed me. The storm passed. 

Having no real alternative, I wiped my face across his chest--he made no comment--and then scrubbed at it with my hands. We sat for a little while, till Ji'la finished her last agonizing crescendo. 

Then, thank gods, the Khajiit took a break to eat; I could hear the drumming start again, more softly, as counterpoint to the sounds of conversation. I could smell roasting elk meat. My mouth watered horribly, but there was no way-- and Ahtar would not eat it, so I did not even ask. It was barely worth getting up to go drink from the skin of spring water. It tasted bad. I could only drink a little of it. 

"What's going on?" Ahtar asked, softly. "Wanna tell me?" 

I shook my head. "Tired," I mumbled.

"Another day, maybe two," Ahtar said. "We'll get to Dawnstar alright." 

I nodded. 

"Been thinking," Ahtar said. "Ma'dran says he's not going on to Windhelm this year." He frowned at me, uncomfortably: "Said one of his people would speak to the ship captains about giving us passage--" 

Ah. Now I understood. This represented a substantial change in our travel arrangements. We had planned on traveling the overland route to Winterhold with the caravan; with Erdi and Ahtar continuing on to Windhelm. 

But I had known this day would come. 

The storm had passed, and I was in control of myself again. And I have had plenty of lessons in controlling my demeanor.

"Until Dawnstar, then," I said evenly. "Makes no sense for you two to be delayed for the whole winter season getting to Windhelm. Better off taking ship than--" I had to breathe shallowly as the sharp pains intruded-- "...going along the roads," I finished. "Dangerous." 

"Yeah," said Ahtar. He was still frowning. "Probably be not the same ship," he pointed out. 

My demeanor was not going to be assisted by my belly-pains any longer; those were subsiding. Pity. "It shouldn't be a difficult run to Windhelm," I assured him. "The winds haven't been bad this year, so even if you're not used to sailing--" 

"Not what I'm worried about," Ahtar said. His fingertips found the protrusions of my spine and rubbed there, soothingly. "More worried about you getting to Winterhold." He hesitated. "Thought I might go--" 

My expression did not change. I did not even blink. 

"With you," he prompted. "Would ah--"

"I'll be fine," I said.

"-- would rather stop off and see Korir first. Get a feel for how things're going with the Stormcloaks," said Ahtar. "How they do shit. Hate to get up to Windhelm and step on my own dick. And if'n I'm giving that asshole Ulfric too much credit and it's"-- he was scritching gently between my shoulder-blades now-- "Too much a shitshow, I won't wanna stay. Better to go when it's not coming on winter and I don't have to worry about freeze-up." 

"Don't dally for my sake," I said, as he worked his way up to my neck. "The College cloisters its novice-students. I doubt I'll be in town much, if at all." 

"Can't make you," Ahtar said. "You don't want me around, I won't be." His fingernail delicately traced the hairs of my left ear. "Don't worry about me gettin' bored in Winterhold," he said offhandedly. "Can always find something to--" 

Irritated, I jerked my head away: "Yeah," I said. "I get it. You can always eat someplace else." 

Ahtar winced: "Shit." 

And there my cue, to detach myself and go from him. 

I found my hands to be rebellious agents; they would not attend to orders. They clasped tighter.

Gingerly, Ahtar returned his hand to my nape. He soothed me, thumb and forefinger rubbing and gently squeezing. Lulling me. My eyes closed as my sullen petulance seeped away, because I had become resolved: We would part in Dawnstar, in a couple of days' time. I could bear this.

If-- only if-- If I could have this moment. 

Ahtar coaxed me towards him, kissing along my mouth to quiet me. I pulled him up across my thighs-- he grunted surprise-- to get us even closer. My hands locked together. 

I took a few slow breaths. There would be no other opportunity. I let the perceptions flow through me. His heat-- where he was warm against me; where he was surprisingly cool. The prickle of his body hair; his roughened skin, just there, below his lower lip. The feel of his hand on the back of my neck. His scent-- he must have acquired new soap, with sandalwood. The cool stiffness of his scarred cheek, and the little jump he gives when my lips graze over its demarcation to sensate flesh. 

I noted each of these in turn, my focus absolute. Each, a jewel, to be carefully secreted in memory's cask. 

This. I will have this. 

Forever, though all else be lost.

"Would it--" Ahtar cleared his throat, oddly diffident: "Would it make you feel better to know I'm a fuckin' liar?" 

My eyes opened.

"What was I gonna do--get all irate with her?" He snorted. "Cats know enough of our business by now, why give 'em more?" 

"Khajiit," I corrected, reflexively. And-- "It wasn't her fault, I was the one who--" I tried to explain, the party and the Dibellan adepts; the High Priestess' scowl at the insult I had tendered them; plus my own failures of continence. My idiocy in setting up the situation which had led to my loss of control. And my foolishness in thinking there might have been something between myself and Erdi that was not. 

Ahtar listened, but I could feel him rippling. "Naaah," he said, smothering his amusement. "I don't think so-- unless bein' young's a curse. Anyways you had no chance at all, between battle fever and-- Erdi's a Dibella votary. Where'd you think she went to school?" I froze. I hadn't thought about it. I-- my mind was reeling with new calculations. Ahtar was too busy restraining laughter to notice my distress: "You go ask her--" he stifled himself. "--Ask what curse you got that made you wanna go lie down with her--" his sides were quivering. "Bein' as she's next thing to a hagraven an' all. Like to see that conversation." 

I did not like it, that Ahtar laughed at me-- I knew some curse, some change had been wreaked on me that fateful night at the Embassy. Before that time my desires might have been unbefitting to my position as Justiciar, but they had been with minor lapses well within my control. I had known my duty. Mer of my station need to be beyond reproach--we must set an example for the common folk by keeping ourselves from unseemly--

Ahtar's face had set in his What's-wrong-with-Thalmor-I-hate-elves expression. Men cannot comprehend what it means to have to justify oneself to one's ancestors and progenitors, generation upon generation back to time unrecounted. And my description of the bond I felt between us-- did he even understand? All of my explanations failed. 

"Don't know what you want," he said roughly, laughter gone. "Tired of guessing." 

"I cannot take you with me," I said, softly. "What does it matter what I will? I cannot afford--" 

This risk. This distraction. This consequence: O Mara, what have I done? Spare, please, my mother and her beloved; my innocent sisters; my brothers and the little ones. I do not even care if I die here, so long as they evade my disgrace. I willed Ortien to be dead; the two nameless soldiers to be buried in a pit somewhere; the Penitus Oculatus captain's little logbook to be recovered only by some traveler in need of privy-paper. For that careless idiot Gilgondoron to be murdered by Blackblood Marauders prior to any debriefing. For my friends' mad flight to end in some place of refuge where no Thalmor dares tread. 

Ahtar touched my mouth, sparking memory: what had Jala said? Didn't want it to be some quick thing; he's had some bad luck. Ah. Were we, then, to be equally unhappy? 

"'Let's not be stupid,'" I reminded him, briskly. "If there cannot be tomorrow, there can be now-- and I'm in here with you, aren't I?" I wet my mouth. "You're the one who says we shouldn't waste what time we've got." 

Soon we were warmed through again. 

Ahtar was kissing me thoroughly, languorous and slow. I tugged at his hair. He made a brief noise of protest but altered course to nuzzle at my throat. "I did not beg your pardon, earlier, for interrupting you," I said, lazily, raising my chin to aid this endeavor. "What was that you were saying? Hm? About being jealous?"

"Yeah I'm jealous," Ahtar murmured against my mouth. "Course I'm jealous. Dibella knows I'm jealous--" The vibration of his voice was quivering every little hair of my ear; I was shuddering with desire. "Want to hear what I'm jealous of?" he breathed. 

I nodded, convulsively and when his thumbnail grazed the calyx of my other ear, I gasped. He was licking--oh my gods-- there on my neck, right below-- I shivered my ear against his face-- please? Ahtar paused long enough to straddle me more firmly. Then his tongue worked up my left ear in tiny delicate strokes. Once at its tip he suckled, and I was lit like a glassblower's torch. I could not keep still. 

Outside the tent, the drumming was getting louder and I could hear yelp-yippings and encouraging cries. The Khajiit were starting up again, thank the many gods. 

Ahtar slapped lightly at my hands, but had to stop to loosen my clawed grip. I could no longer hold his weight. My legs had gone to pins-and-needles uselessness and slipped loose as I collapsed supine. We came to rest with Ahtar's arms and elbows bracketing my face. 

Kharado began the Khajjit singing anew, in his low cicada-like buzzing that can drone on for hours. 

“Walkin' in," Ahtar growled, as I lay beneath him. I jumped. "Seein' that fat cock rammed up into her." He nuzzled. Heat gusted along my neck with each breath. "Wanted to die." A threatened bite to my neck became the slow-throbbing tug of a sucking kiss. 

I was sorry I was so very sorry if I whimpered enough times would he-- I could not get at myself with his body in my way. His fingers went to my mouth. I suckled at them, frantic to get myself off. A warning nip against my ear. I stilled. A breath. His raw voice pitched for me alone. “Want you so bad. Just like that. Inside me.” Another exhalation-- he knew what he was doing with that, damn him: "Told you I was jealous." 

Ahtar began to lick at my ear again. He took his time. 

Sheshemarjo had joined Kharado now, and Omir working some weird harmonic around them; I could not place it. The noise was growing louder. I could hear an oddly-tuned lute adding a note here and there according to some rhythm I could not discern. I could not not listen. The air about us shivered as the aetherial magicka began to respond to the vibrations of the Khajiiti music. 

"Fuck is that," Ahtar muttered, as a tail-drone added its reverberations. He sat up on his haunches, sitting back on my thighs. 

"Sacred shit," I managed. 

Ahtar cursed: "They gonna start up again?" He rubbed down my front, dreamily, petting me from chest to belly to long-neglected prick. He gave it that little squeeze that my body has already learned: slow down. "So," he said. "Been thinking. Got some competition. Pretty girl like that, Dibellan training and all-- I better talk myself up." 

He laid on top of me again and his hips pressed down; that was a challenge. When I answered by rocking upward, he growled approval and started to move. “I’m a lot stronger than she is,” he advised, thighs clamping down as a brief advertisement; I gasped. "You can go pretty hard. Don't need to be careful." We were forehead to forehead now as he leaned to sample my panting breath. "Think you're going to like that." His eyes caught the faint glimmer of moonlight and washed to pellucid amber. 

“It's a lot hotter,” he said, lifting up a little to grind down harder and I could well believe it; it was like a furnace between us. I could feel him laugh at the noise I made. "Touch me there," he suddenly demanded. My hand slid down his flank and hesitated; faltered. I couldn't. He took my hand and gently guided it. 

“Lot tighter,” he promised, encouragingly. I made a noise. His face pushed close to mine, his voice held to its most menacing pitch. "This-- this ain't been nothin'-- just a little fun on the road. Just jerking off." And-- "You don't even know what you been missing." 

Screaming uluations ripped the night and we both startled. Khenarthi save us, it was a Khajiit aria, and there could be no talking now. Khajiit singing fills the whole earth as well as sky; the buzzing drone of the others backing Ji'la vibrated in my skull almost to madness. Air and earth rippled, potent with magicka and I was very glad I was not out under the moons. 

I could hear nothing else, not even Ahtar's furious swearing. He tried; he pushed down against me but it did not work; we were not slick enough and the drag of skin against skin too uncomfortable. He said something to me but I could not hear him, and then he rolled off me to lie beside me, nudging until he could recapture my ear with his mouth. I brought his hand to its mate, and he tugged between thumb and forefingers, pulling in long gentle strokes. His mouth tugged, then drew down hard. My vision went white. Ahtar took me right up to the brink and held me there. I wore myself out arcing uselessly against him; he let go to lend his fingers back to my mouth, so that I might stifle my curses and whimperings as I pleased. My ear slipped loose as he tried to speak to me, head pressed to mine. I could barely hear him and that only as vibration-- "fuckin love elves--"

The lattice of the world was a shaking roar of noise; the Khajiit song had grown louder than the dragons' roar; though there was no dislocation, no sense of panic. We were grounded in time and space. My inner eyes could almost see the bounds of it now, expanding outwards towards Aetherius. I was nearly there-- 

Silence echoed throughout the camp. The souls were sung home. 

"They ah--gonna to start up again?" Ahtar muttered. 

"I think they may be done," I answered, dully. 

We listened. 

Kharado made a clever remark. Lena laughed. Khajiit began to move about the camp, conversing. Someone began to play the lute, Imperial music this time, Nibenese and soft. Ahtar shared his general opinion of Khajiit and their impeccable sense of timing. I concurred. 

"It's late and I've got morning watch," I finally said, and took myself in hand. "Let's just get it done." And--"Talk to me while I do it," I whispered. It was not a Khajiit heart-cry this time, that drowned out his words; then there was cursing and his own frantic movements and then we were lying in a damp huddle together. 

“I am very very very sorry,” I murmured, eyes still closed. 

“Don’t be,” he sighed, just as sleepy. “My fault, kinda lost control of all that.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“I meant it,” Ahtar said, suddenly. 

“Yeah,” I agreed, and yawned. “We can't. You know that.” 

I could feel him nod, unwillingly. My hands were clasping his neck; his wrist; I was not letting go. The lassitude was spreading through me; I would be asleep again soon. 

“Till Dawnstar,” I murmured. 

“I hate fuckin’ Thalmor,” Ahtar grumbled.

At dawn the beach was eerily quiet. 

Ahtar and I walked the patrol, silently. Not his turn, but he went with me regardless.

It was chilly enough that I expected to see frost riming the yellowing grass. Autumn is a brief season here. Would the Stormcloaks would make it home in time to see their crops in? How much would they continue to favor a general who'd cost them that harvest? There is no paid milita here; these Nords are all farmers. Small-holders. 

Ulfric's late-season ventures into Hjaalmarch and Haafingaar-- by now all of us were theorizing these unsuccessful-- may have cost him a few years in terms of this war effort. It may have cost him more than that. We would see.

Our friends the wild horses stopped grazing and looked northwards, a warning. 

It was only a patrol out of Dawnstar. Five men afoot, full armor, swords and shields equipped. Had we not been alone in armor of elven make, Ahtar and myself might have approached. As it was, we felt uneasy and took shelter behind some rocks. They walked on by. 

"See that?" Ahtar questioned, tracing lines along his cheek and neck. One of the Dawnstar guard bore a Blackblood Marauders tattoo.

As we came back from our watch, we encountered a herder, who greeted us-- Nils Halfhand, bringing his elk down from the last of the summer's grazing. He wore a heavy coat and hood; when I asked, he pointed--

Snow's coming. 

I could see it now, on the flanks of the mountain and along the rocks, no longer confined to the cloud-swept peaks. 

I had not thought that such a lengthy and overwarm summer would turn to winter so soon.

Ahtar and I went up the long slope back to the Khajiit camp. 

My legs and feet felt leaden and numb with cold. 

Sometime in the night the wind had picked up. Even curled against Ahtar with all the bedding wrapped about us, I had been cold and miserable. Even in my solitary cave I'd had shelter from the wind, and dry bracken to lie upon. Not this constant damp misery. Also a little of my magicka had come back, just enough for it to plague me with constant attempts at self-healing as I drifted off. Thankfully Ahtar is about as magickally aware as a rock. Erdi would have noticed. I was glad she had not been in with us. 

"Should eat," Ahtar said to me. I'd kept him wakeful last night, and blamed my distress on the cold and discomfort from short rations. 

I agreed with him, unhappily. Lena had done her best with the tough elk meat, and there was even broth cooking, but one look at its greasy surface and I couldn't. 

I gave my cup to the Stormcloak leader, who was deep in conversation with Ji'la. She thanked me without looking up. 

Ahtar, grimacing, drank the broth. I saw him picking at the stewed meat, unhappy. There was little else.

Once Ahtar and myself returned from patrol, I found Marcus and Sheshemarjo and Lena in a contretemps over the tent situation; which I resolved as best I could. 

A few minutes later, Ma'dran gave a general announcement: the caravan would be arriving in Dawnstar, come what may, in six days' time. Ma'dran would not keep the caravan out in the wilderness on Witches' Day, no matter what. The Stormcloaks, Imperials, and the pirates' former hostages would be turned over to the Dawnstar authorities at that time. The Khajiit would be moonpathing home. 

Six more days? My heart sank. 

We had been gone from Solitude for nearly eight days. Eight days which could have been a two or three days' leisurely stroll along the beach. 

If Ulfric Stormcloak had failed to take the city of Solitude, the Thalmor would be returning with Tullius-- Thalmor who were going to make it their mission to find me and return me to the Embassy, where Gilgondoron waited. Auriel knows whether Gilgondoron would cast me as aedra or daedra in his little tale of our adventures; but it hardly mattered. Uncomfortable questions would soon follow.

The Dovahkiin happened to agree with Ma'dran. He thought it best that we come into Dawnstar in one large group. He did not want for us to send ahead to the authorities. Kharado had also spotted a Dawnstar guard with a neck tattoo. It had not been the same man. We could not trust that any particular detachment of guardsmen would not be corrupt. We needed to go directly to Jarl Skald. 

The Stormcloak leader thought it over. She concurred. 

Marcus disagreed. He thought we should go into town and get boats to transport the wounded. Every day we spent here meant more danger for us and for them. They needed healing-- a real healer, not his amateur attempts. And we were almost out of food, and low on arrows. Much longer in the cold and we would risk illness in the camp--

The Dovhakiin disagreed with Marcus-- spoke over him and overruled him. 

Marcus-- for all that I'd heard of his volatile temperament, I'd seen nothing of it-- waited him out. When the Dovahkiin was finished, Marcus nodded once, to acknowledge the older man's authority on the matter, and went aside. 

Omir and I went to get water for the camp; it was our turn. 

Omir told me that the two of them had not been speaking. Not since the Icerunner.

Upon my return, I argued with Ma'dran vociferously. 

It did no good. 

Ma'dran wasn't going to walk away from any sort of profit, and with the Imperials and the Stormcloaks along he had plenty of extra hands to help scavenge everything of value from the Icerunner. Nor would we be summoning in help from Dawnstar only to face arguments and adjudications over the flotsam; over whether or not the ship was reparable; over whether or not the act of piracy would have granted the Imperials a claim at one remove, or two. Ma'dran would turn the wreck over to the authorities, yes-- once he was done. 

I had words to say about this as well-- the Imperials had ceded no claims on that ship, and that property was not Ma'dran's. Stealing property from thieves does not make it less stolen. Ma'dran puffed himself up with justifications. I became overset to the point that Erdi guided me away; I was shaking with rage and nearly weeping. 

Ma'dran, snidely, made a point to caution all nearby that tent walls hide no secrets. 

This was a mistake. 

Ahtar lit right into him with an impressive tirade, finishing with: "...maybe I'll salvage me a new bedroll. Fur side in. Which I'm gonna make by ramming my fist up your ass to your throat, turnin' you inside out, and scrapin' off all the unnecessary bits..." 

Ma'dran stood toe-to-toe with him, snarling his own threats. 

Ji'la-- who seemed remarkably unruffled-- came to stand near me. "Ma'dran will not carry tales to the Thalmor," she assured me. "No one here has been eaten by a dragon, yes?" Her whiskers tipped forward. "Ma'dran forgets to read the credit side of his ledger." 

In the end Ma'dran came around to grudgingly apologize and promise that he and his Khajiit would not make any sort of report to the Thalmor. 

But, six days it would be. Six more days with no healing potions-- we were out of ingredients and the wilds around us scavenged bare. With no magicka potions, either-- I had consumed the last of those on my return from the Icerunner, when I'd attempted to do a better job self-healing. The flash of heat had not subsided for some time thereafter. 

Erdi was looking very worried about the delay. I went to assure her that it would be all right, and urged her not to tell Ahtar. I could get moonsugar from Sheshemarjo. I could maybe even get Marcus to heal me, assuming the injured started to recover. 

I would be fine. 

Erdi folded her arms and stood her ground. She insisted. 

I went to talk to Ahtar myself.

"We could go," I suggested to Ahtar. "On our own." I tempted him with a promise of a couple of extra days in Dawnstar. With a room. That had a door. Maybe even a bed. 

Ahtar didn't buy it. He snorted. "Yeah, cause that prick Skald'll surely open his gate to a buncha Thalmor. Unless you wanna walk down there in your underpants. Don't think Erdi's gonna want to do that. No." He brooded. "Anyways I asked and even if you was up to it--" he gave me an assessing look-- "Ma'dran said no. Not if we want to get paid." 

"I could go on my own," I suggested. "Bring the jarl the news about the dragon, at least. Maybe he'll put me on a boat to Winterhold." Skald would not want the complications my presence would bring. 

"Uh-huh. Skald'll listen to a fuckin' elf. Doubt he'd even listen to me." 

I insisted that I could try. This bought me nothing but a side-eyed look and silence. 

"I need to go there," I said, suddenly. "I need to go now." Before it is too late. 

"Yeah-- why?" Ahtar scowled. "Why're you in a big hurry all of a sudden?" 

I did not want to tell him. 

It had been bad enough seeing his face when I explained the tent situation. 

Ma'dran had rather acidly observed that whatever my ailment was, it had not prevented me from doing anything that I wanted to do. He was convinced I was suffering some somatic delusion. Perhaps I was. 

So I let it go.

After the tiff he'd had with the Dovahkiin, Marcus had sweet-talked Lena into letting him move all of his own personal items and excavation junk into the cook's storage tent, much of which was currently occupied by the hostages. 

The caravan's tents were extremely crowded now, and sleeping outside would no longer be a comfortable option. The hostages weren't going to be able to tolerate Marcus' comings and goings. Sheshemarjo was starting to get upset with Lena about it. To placate the two of them, I said I would discuss it with Marcus. 

Ahtar, shaking his head, had left me to it. 

Marcus opened negotiations by bringing me something which he said would serve my troubles better than moonsugar. The merest trace of it convinced me. It was familiar; I could swear I had tasted it before. My memories were fraying; I could not place it. Even the bottle looked as if I had seen it before. I tasted again and all of my nausea instantly ceased in a zing of heat-- but as my skin flushed, I knew it now. 

"Ah!" I said, finally placing it. "I've seen this stuff at the Embassy." I frowned. "Pretty sure they put in the wine-punch." I had tasted whatever-it-was before, on the night of that cursed party.

Marcus snorted with derision. "I'd believe that," he said, gesturing towards where Ahtar and Erdi sat. "You should hear their stories about what goes on up there." 

I shuddered at an ugly flash of memory, and lifted the purple glass bottle to examine it more closely. Marcus mistook my movement and immediately put his hand over mine, forestalling what he believed was my impulse to take another sip. 

"There can be deadly consequences," Marcus said, and explained, his face unwontedly serious. 

I promised that I would reserve it for great need. 

"Ma'dran will murder me if he finds out about this, so--" Marcus gestured, and I nodded, promising discretion. 

In return I resolved the argument over tent-space by volunteering our own large tent for the benefit of the hostages. I took for myself the smallest and poorest solitary tent. Ahtar was gifted the second-worst; Erdi perforce had to move in with the Stormcloak leader, who said she could make a little room. Neither of them were happy with me or with Marcus, but that was too bad.

My constant distress was exhausting; concealing it even more so. I was happy to gain a little privacy. Better, I thought, to leave matters as they were, and if I stayed in the tent-- with either of them, really--who knew what I would agree to. I needed to get to Winterhold, and I needed to stay focused on that. 

I had no idea what Marcus had gifted me, but I was able to drink some elk broth thereafter, so I had not made a bad bargain.

The Khajiit went about their day, as placidly as if they were camped to do business. No hurry. 

Ji'la talked with some of the others about sending out more foragers. Ma'dran's patrols were continuing to look for the rest of the Blackblood Marauders. The Dovahkiin was quite uneasy that we had not run across the pirates' own vessel. 

The beach patrols reported that there were a few Imperial ship sightings but they were far off on the horizon. There were more longboat patrols, but these also did not come near the shore. We saw no more troop transport ships. There were no signs of Stormcloaks passing through the marshes to our rear.

Some time passed. 

The routine of the Khajiit camp is much the same from day to day, when it is at rest. Ahtar and Erdi and myself did not take part in the salvage efforts. We stood our guard shifts and walked our patrols. We helped Sheshemarjo as best we could with the injured.

I did not recognize, I think, that I was in serious trouble until it was too late. 

This is naught to the non-initiated-- but it is our training as Justiciars to remember everything, to mark every face and name; to recount the day's events and to review it at leisure for error and correction; and for one's personal meditations. I have had more education than most, given what I will go on to be. Elodie saw to it herself personally. There are mer who wait for decades to be tutored by her. 

I-- I lost track of the days. 

I have tried to recover what was lost. But the cord has snapped; I am left with only a mere handful of beads, and the rest have scattered in the dust. Only now and then do I spy a glimmer, and even then it usually comes to naught. There are too many gaps where I remember nothing, or where my memories are so nebulous as to be useless. So recounting is difficult; and reflection of little use. Still, I have tried to preserve what I could. 

I was waking often in the night, runnelled with sweat. During the day I fell into waking dreams of terror.

I had not known how much Ahtar's nightly presence comforted me until it was gone. The pain and distress had grown to be nearly-constant and my magicka had not--since the dragon's fire-- renewed itself beyond the barest glimmer. It was the sheen of water along the bottom of a nearly-dry well: it was a torment to be unable to reach it. I could no longer heal at all. 

Marcus was kept busy dealing with the hostages, with the severely injured Imperials, and with the Dovahkiin. That worthy had not been compliant with Sheshemarjo's instructions-- he had not been supposed to be walking on it, after all-- and was now suffering for it. So he sat with his leg propped up in camp and congenially oversaw the rest of us. 

Except for Marcus. 

I saw no conversation between the two of them, and no contact save when Marcus came to heal him. Ahtar and Erdi ensured that Marcus ate and slept and drank. It was plain from his exhaustion that he had no healing left for me. I began to spend my time in my tent, hunched over in the only posture that afforded me relief, and endured. 

It was only pain. I could endure it. I had endured worse. I would be fine. 

Ahtar looked in on me, cursed, and made me go speak to Ma'dran.

Ma'dran rather impatiently dismissed me. All of the capable Stormcloak and Imperial soldiers were now taking their duty-shifts in turn-- most of them had minor injuries--and there was nothing visibly wrong with me. We were all hungry and hurting. 

Ma'dran wished for me to stop complaining. To stop whining at him. So I did. 

I helped as I could, and stood my guard-shift-- barely, Kharado had me sit on a rock and came back for me-- and helped Lena, until--

Shouting. Screaming. Unearthly caterwauling. 

We all ran for our bows. 

This last pack of-- it seems too flattering to call them thieves and outlaws. Broken men. They had nearly made it into the camp itself. Unlike the pirates, these had no mage and no strategy, and barely any weapons; their attack was sheer desperation--

"Well, that an' being chased by Ji'la and her pack of fools'd be enough to make any man want to charge up a hill into arrowstorm," said Ahtar. "Quicker, and less embarrassin'." He shook his head. "Wonder how many more a these we're gonna get," he said. 

"I hope not many," said Ma'dran, sourly. More cleanup. And this crew had nothing worth taking. At least we had managed to bring them down outside of camp. 

Ji'la just grinned.

"More of the same," Ahtar came in to announce, a few hours later. "Omir found their camp on the way back. Same ones Ji'la's crew flushed out earlier." 

So we walked out over the rolling downs to the northeast-- and suddenly Ahtar sprinted away from the rest of us. He doubled back and whirled-- I didn't get a chance to nock an arrow before he engaged. The bandits were coming up out of the grass all around us. 

It was too close for me to risk-- finally I saw an opening and took the shot. Another. 

The arrows fell short. I had no strength. 

I was going to be useless.

I think I missed, but the bandit gave a despairing cry and lunged at Ahtar with a great stroke. 

He ducked away from it and caught her under the chin with a quick stab. 

Blood fountained everywhere and her body slapped against the ground.

Ahtar-- it was like watching a terrier pitch into a rat nest. Ahtar whipped about and stabbed a smaller man in the chest. That man dropped. Ahtar sprinted forward and hacked a hand off another. I watched that bandit slump to his knees and fall sideways. 

I could hear the rapid snap-snap-snap of Erdi's bow as she fired off shots. She was was proving very much not-useless. I scanned for another target but even my perception was too slow; as soon as I registered a target, Erdi had hit it, or Ahtar was already engaged with it. I couldn't risk a shot.

The next man who faced Ahtar fell before lifting a blade. Another did get a dagger up, but dropped it from a useless hand immediately. 

I turned and shot at a man in crude leathers, catching him low in the belly. The shot was too weak and the arrow glanced away, but I was lucky: he lost his balance and fell. Ahtar bounded over the hillocks of grass and killed him.

The last bandit coming towards us was better armored, but Ahtar kicked his legs out from beneath him and stabbed him down through the loose-fitting throat of his armor.

Ahtar muttered in disgust at himself-- this was a recruit-level mistake-- and put his foot on the dead Nord's thigh, sawing the blade back and forth to extricate it.

I backed a step or two away as Ahtar turned to us-- he is that fearsome, in a killing rage. Ahtar settled down within a few seconds, the angry flush slowly fading from his scars. 

I knew better than to approach him or touch him, though I wanted to. We were not alone, the others had caught up to us.

Dead bandits lay everywhere. I counted ten. No-- eleven. Erdi rather viciously accounted for another who'd been hiding in the tall grass. The reek of blood and loosed bowels was everywhere. The exhilaration of combat left me. 

"Oh, gods," I said, wearily, and went off to kneel behind a clump of tall grass. I have no idea why it so struck me when the rot and the filth and the decaying bodies of the Icerunner had not.

Unfortunately this particular attack did not cease, and some time after the others had left Ahtar lost patience and threw me over his shoulder. It was an interminable walk back to camp, particularly as I gave him no choice but to set me down every twenty yards or so. After a particularly vicious punch to his kidney-- he would not stop to listen and I do not like being constrained-- he began to swear at me, but he agreed that I could walk. And then I started apologizing and could not stop. 

When we got into camp Ahtar took me directly to Ma'dran's tent and dumped me onto the rugs. 

Ma'dran did not take much more convincing to decree that I was to be exempted from all future patrol or guard duties. He even stopped arguing about the time Sheshemarjo was wasting on me, or the moonsugar and healing potions that I had used. 

Ma'dran has a great regard for his profit ledger, but perhaps a greater regard for his rugs. 

I did not argue about my change in assignment to light duty. I gave in and consumed more of Marcus' damned substance. Ahtar was not happy to see me with it: "Skooma? Don't let Ma'dran catch you with that in his caravan," he warned. "And I'm gonna talk to Marcus, see if I--" 

I closed my eyes and drifted into nightmare again.

Ahtar shook me awake and made me go lie down by the fire. Erdi had promised to keep an eye on me. I think she told the Khajiit that I was simply waiting on my guard shift. I don't know what she told them.

Around me the general business of the camp went on, morning after night after morning. 

The Khajiit conversed in their quiet manner-- they are much more silent than man or mer-- once in awhile punctuated by Ji'la's merry laugh. 

The guard shifts changed in turn. All would have been peaceful had it not been for our rescued hostages; they often cried and screamed. As it was we had no shortage of volunteers to go out on patrol. 

"I have no need to face Tsun-at-the-bridge," said the grey-faced Imperial, the one who'd also suffered a broken thigh--the same injury as the deceased Stormcloak. "Mara is more forgiving. If I go out of my head just cut my throat." He was in far better shape, probably because he'd had a dose of healing magick courtesy of Marcus before they'd tried to move him. I was sitting beside him, waiting in my turn for Sheshemarjo to come and see to me. I was trying to keep from moving around too much. 

I was not costing the Khajiit too much these days other than tent-space. We were running so thin on rations that I had given up my share to those in need. Eating was enough of a struggle, even with the moonsugar, and it had become apparent that it exacerbated the pain and other symptoms. 

I did not trouble Marcus. Ahtar had sent him to me, but when I saw how wrung out he looked, I told him that I was doing well enough. We were two days out from when we had to move; or one or three-- I could not recall. Soon.

Erdi kept to her word throughout and did not go far from me at all.

Ahtar had quite a long discussion with Marcus about me. I couldn't hear a word of it, but they kept looking in my direction. I do not believe that either of them shared it with the Dovahkiin; he kept to his tent and Marcus kept apart.

Erdi said it was nothing I need concern myself with. She said they were just trying to make plans for what would happen after we got to Winterhold. 

"Dawnstar, you mean," I said. 

Erdi hesitated, and then nodded.

The Khajiit were discussing their own plans. 

More of them had appeared overnight from Dawnstar; it appeared as if my conjectures about the moonpath had been evidenced. Once the moonpaths were opened, the Khajiit would be beginning to move out. 

Lena asked Erdi to help her pack up the bulk of the cooking equipment. 

The Khajiit were breaking down camp. Or-- did all this happen on another day? I am not certain.

Some of the new Khajiit were going about the camp and offering suggestions about Ma'dran's bales and boxes, and I began to understand: these Khajiit were from Ri'saad's caravan, and they had come to assist with the transfer of the salvage. 

After what we had seen of the Dawnstar guard, Ma'dran was taking no further risks. He had directed that the Khajiit were going to moonpath-transit the bulk of the caravan and its semi-legitimate goods to someplace far away. 

Ma'dran himself would take the remnants of the caravan-- and its assorted hangers-on-- to Dawnstar soon. We were bringing along a few of the more valuable items from the ship, of course. Just enough to keep the Jarl sweet. None of us liked bringing the hostages to a place where the Blackblood Marauders held some sway, but we had little choice. Ma'dran would not be moved:

Only Khajiit would be permitted the moonpath.


	26. Cyrelian-- I am: Hjaalmarch 9

"Hey," called Marcus, softly. It was barely past dawn and most of our company was still asleep. I pretended not to hear him, but that never does any good with Marcus. He came nearer.

"Come with me," he coaxed. "I need to take a break and I want to show you something." 

I had just wangled one of the cushions for myself and was about to sit by the fire. 

I declined.

"No," he said to me. "I'm serious, it's something that you need to see." 

I shook my head. "Too tired," I said. 

Marcus came closer and leaned down to look at me. "It's close by. Just up that rise." 

I made a disparaging noise and remained seated. 

"I'll heal you," he offered, smiling. "If you can't make it back. Or-- you know what, I'll do it anyways. But only if you come along." 

"Yeah," I said wearily, ignoring his offer of a hand up. "I've learned how it goes with you. Always the quid pro quo." I had taken the coward's way out, and pretended to Ahtar that Marcus had gulled me out of our tent. Now Marcus thought we were sharing a private little joke. Mistake. 

"Hold on," Marcus said, and went to fetch something from amidst his piles of junk. How was he getting all of those things to Dawnstar? 

"What do you need that thing for?" I asked. 

The mechanism looked impressively lethal. Overkill for mere bandits. Marcus drew one of the bolts out of its quiver to examine it. It glistened with some nasty-looking substance and I watched him put it back with great caution. That answered my question as to why he hadn't brought it along on our assault on the pirates: those bolts were coated with deadly poison. This weapon was likely to be just as dangerous to its wielder. 

"I hope we don't," said Marcus. He smiled again, in that manner of his which he believes more charming than it is. But I saw it for what it is: a warning flash of teeth; the mark of the predator that he is. "In case there's a dragon," he said, disingenuously. "We found one of their spawning-grounds. Want to see it?" 

Reflexively I glanced up.

"Kharjo's got his people watching on the far side of it," Marcus said. "So I think we'll be alright. But since you and I can hear them--" he shrugged. "Not like we won't know it's coming." 

I looked to where Ahtar was sitting, but he was deep in conversation with Omir and evinced zero interest. 

I should have stayed.

"So some of us were having a little debate the other night," Marcus said. 

"Mmhm," I said, still trying to get my breath back. Even a slow walk up this rise had cost me all my strength. "What is that tower?" I asked, to buy myself more recovery time. 

"That's Nightcaller Temple," said Marcus. "Dawnstar's right below it." He squinted along the coastline. "Ten miles, maybe? Probably less than that." 

"And is that the College of Winterhold, beyond it? Those rocks?" 

"No," Marcus said. "The College is too far off to see from here." 

"Pity," I said. "Would've liked to see it." 

Marcus gave me an odd look. We continued up the hill, very slowly for my benefit.

Thankfully our destination was no more than an easy half-mile away, up a shallow incline. 

"What is this place?," I asked, unsettled. The dirt in the middle of the mound looked different to me, chalkier and curiously barren. I knelt to examine it more closely. It crumbled through my fingers, dry and lifeless. 

Marcus walked to the center of the mound. He scuffed his foot along the ground and stopped. He tilted his head, frowning, like a dog assessing a noise at the barest edge of hearing. My ears tipped likewise, to listen. I heard nothing. Even thin and weak, my magicka-sense thrummed a warning. There was something here, all right.

"This is where one of them sleeps," Marcus told me. "I don't think they die. Not truly. Not death as we know it." 

Now there was a truly terrifying thought.

"The dragons," I said, uneasily, to clarify. 

"Yes," said Marcus, wincing a little. He didn't want to use the word either, in this place. "We found this mound days ago-- before we met up with all of you. We thought that this might be where that big one came from. We were wrong. Another will emerge here, but who knows when." 

"Another one like the last one?" I asked, alarmed. 

"We won't know," Marcus admitted. "So far that was the biggest. Mostly they are a lot smaller. What do you hear?" 

I concentrated on my magicka-sense, which was being less than cooperative: "Nothing," I reported. "The breeze is kicking up a little bit, but--" I had a headache, but not that kind of headache. And my abdomen, of course, but that was a constant thing these days. I was tired of giving into it. I clenched my fingers inside my gauntlets, willing the pain to stop. It did not. 

"So you've heard why we call him..." Marcus nodded in the direction of camp; I knew whom he meant. 

"Dovahkiin, right? Some old Nordic language," I said, dismissively. "Dragon-child, yes?" 

"Dragon-Hunter-Child. Dov-ah-kiin." That little flash of teeth again. "It's Dovahzuul, and it's not Nordic at all. Dragons speak it. So ah--do we. Both of us. We get it from the dragon souls we absorb when we kill them. I let him take the name and all of the glory--" Marcus was still grinning "--but both of us can do it. Steal their souls and their Words. We can hear their tongue." He moistened his lips. "We can use it," he whispered. "The Dovakiin says that the dragons will fight us wherever they find us-- we must kill them to show ourselves worthy--but the dragons want us to use this magicka of theirs to win the war."

"That's ridiculous," I scoffed, ignoring his little boast. "They're beasts." 

Magickal beasts. Beasts capable of wielding rather complex vocatives and with some semblance of tactical-- 

Beasts which carried powerful souls which this Dovahkiin alleged he could absorb, which gained him both strength and knowledge. Beasts which would follow him and did seem to have been actively hunting the Dovahkiin. Or hunting the two of them, perhaps. 

"Fine," I said. "I stand corrected. Dragons have a language. They talk to each other. You and that portentous fellow down there have some special affinity for them. There's nothing up here. Can we go back down now, please?" 

"Speak to it." 

"What?!" 

"You heard me. Shout at it. That's how they talk to us. To each other. It's sleeping-- it'll cause no harm. Do it," urged Marcus. He began to back away from the mound. I saw him unsling his weapon and, with meticulous care, slot in one of its bolts.

"Do we know what causes these things to wake up?" I queried. 

"Not really," Marcus admitted. "So? Tell me you'll do it. I've got this. Just in case." He patted his weapon, which was aimed at the center of the dragon-mound. 

"Why?" I demanded. 

"Ehh-- " he temporized, and then made up his mind: "We needed to settle a disagreement. So I told everyone I'd go find out. Go ahead. I want to hear what you have for a Voice. Shout." 

I sat still for a long time, listening and thinking. Marcus got antsy. What was I doing that was taking so long? 

"Praying," I said, nettled. "Shut up." 

I had better conform myself as best I could. Marcus was at least fifteen yards away now, well beyond my reach even if I could run. From the way I felt, I did not think I could. I recalled what I had seen of the immense dragon, and what it had done to-- how many of the Imperials? Fifteen? Twenty? How many men warded Dawnstar, visible on the horizon? 

Marcus gestured with the crossbow. "Show me you can do it," he ordered, brusque. All pretended friendship and courtesy gone. 

"Sorry." I can smile falsely, too: "Hate to disappoint. I have no idea what your --ah-- Dovahkiin has been going on about. I was just making a lot of noise with some Destruction spells. Trying to mimic those ah-- noises your friend was making? Seemed to draw that creature's attention. So if you want me to wake up some dragon--" I shrugged. "I really can't help you." 

Marcus did not know what to do. I should be in terror of him and his little bolts. He glowered at me with great intensity, his hair flopping down into his eyes like one of my mother's rat-terriers. 

"I think you're a liar," Marcus abruptly countered. "The Dovahkiin watched you. The Khajiit saw you. Ra'zhinda said you were Shouting the same Word she heard the little dragon Shout-- where did you get that from, if not its soul?" And: "We know the Thalmor know all about these dragons. I want--" 

"Perhaps they do." I shrugged again. "I don't." 

Marcus tried to goad me. 

"All mer lie," I said, unoffended. "I suppose all men do, too." It is true that there is such a thing as operational security, and I had been gone from the Embassy and out of contact with my supervising officer for some months, but there was no way that-- Really, I had to laugh. Marcus had some novel ideas. 

"What's so funny?!" he demanded. My chortling had interrrupted him. 

"First Emissary Elenwen has been chasing through the wilds of Skyrim for months hunting for dragons. Alinor's demanding answers. We can't just send a message-bird to say, 'Sorry! It's some damned Nord thing. We have no idea on Nirn what it could be!''" I drew a deep breath to calm myself. It hurt to laugh this much. "Please," I said. "The Thalmor haven't summoned things we couldn't wholly govern since the Oblivion Crisis--" 

Oh, his face. 

"Settle down," I advised. "We didn't[ have anything to do with that either. We were just this little student organization back then. Relief work. Charitable efforts." 

Marcus glared at me. 

I returned my gaze to Dawnstar, since there wasn't anything of interest to regard here.

"Tinvaak!" Marcus cried, suddenly. _**Speak!**_

The ground shook. It nearly forced the Word out of me; I had to cover my mouth with my hands and press my jaw closed to hold it back. 

The ground-tremor which Marcus had caused didn't cease. The shaking intensified to the point where I nearly fell. Was Marcus really so powerful that-- agony burst behind my eyes. A Voice joined our conversation in a full bellowing roar: "WO MEYZ?!" _**WHO COMES?** _

Marcus went ashen: "Ooohhh, fuck," he breathed. He brought his weapon back up to bear on the center of the mound.

The dragon roared again, from beneath the ground, shatteringly loud: "WO MEYZ wah diil ahrol? Wo meyz! Wo los hi?" _**Who comes to my burial mound? Who comes? Who are you?**_

New and unwelcome knowledge bubbled up into me like unwanted memories-- 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_You will never leave this place. You will never leave. You will die here._

_Ortien laughed along with the others; he was nervous; this was well outside his level of comfort. I kept looking to him for rescue-- but Taeryndyl directed Ortien to take all of the others out. That was when I knew that they would kill me. Taeryndyl himself was talking to Hinnaro about the risks-- would the Sea of Ghosts be best? The water would help leach away any traces of magicka and if they were lucky the sea-creatures would devour enough of my flesh to obscure what had been done-- I huddled in the cage, unable to sit or stand or lie. The pain was throbbing in my belly with each heartbeat, a great pulsing agony centering where Hinnaro's war-hammer had come down. I tried to heal; oh gods there was nothing left of my magicka. Flash of heat when I tried._

_Auriel let me pass; let me pass through this._

_I'll take care of it, Hinnaro assured Taeryndyl. Save me back a crostata, will you? I might be a little late._

_Taeryndyl left, and Hinnaro bolted the door shut. Now Hinnaro was in no hurry at all. He took a bottle of wine from a crate and used one of his-- I shuddered--implements to press the cork on through into the bottle. He sat on the table to drink it._

_His thoughtful gaze turned back towards me._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was sprawled in the dust. Marcus was kicking me. When I curled up to protect my midsection, Marcus slapped me open-handed across my helmet, repeatedly. "Get up!" he cried, full voice, and I could barely hear him over the roaring of the dragon. 

It-- it is not their Words which deafen me, I know now. Dragons are a disruption in magicka and time, causing my inner senses to go reeling. My head was screaming from the pressure. Dazed, I stared at the earth in the middle of the dragon-mound. Was it beginning to heave and ripple? Had Marcus caused this thing to rise, all on his own? 

I was being shoved and pushed; Marcus was still screaming at me-- and then I put it together. I scrabbled up on hands and knees and got myself away from the mound itself, collapsing onto the turf. The noise-- the pain and pressure-- I could still feel it here, but it was not overwhelming. I could hear Marcus now, high and desperate: 

"It knows you're here! It thinks you're being rude-- You need to acknowledge. Answer it!" The Word itself was resounding in my mind, I could feel my mouth moving to shape it almost without my will. Marcus grimaced. He too was holding his mouth very tight and still, as if he were controlling the same reaction. "Yeah--I know the feeling. Do it!" 

"It-- it isn't a little word..." I was struggling now, sweating, fighting both this compulsion and the weakness of my body. "I think it is very dangerous..." It was not in any respect the Word that I had learned, that I had memorized, the word that had carried the day against the ancient dragon. It was that internal pressure, mounting now to the point of anguish-- it was nothing outside myself; it was part of me; it was-- 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Hinnaro flicked at the latch to taunt me, and leaned just a bit too close. I snatched at his hair and clothes and he laughed, leaning in to detach my fingers. But that was a feint; I grabbed his cloak and dragged him up against the iron bars of the cage by it, pulling till I could get an arm over his throat. Somehow, desperate, I clung on as his frantic struggles grew weaker. All the while I could feel all the tendrils of my magicka, wrapping around and through my body, nestling around the injury to my belly, whatever-it-was, locking it down._

_I slumped against the bars of the cage. Its door fell open. Hinnaro must have triggered the latch in his frantic struggles. He lay dead at my feet. I was alive._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Zu'u nahlaas!" _**I am alive.**_

The Words burst out of me, but just as quickly I regained control, gasping. I was kneeling in the dust. I have trained-- I have trained in such things. I would control this. I would. I took another painful breath. 

Slowly, carefully I said: "Zu'u los nahlaas fah gein dilon." _**I am alive because that one is dead.** _

Even with my restraint the ground reverberated beneath me. As the last of the Words passed out of me, my magicka flared up, instantly igniting a great invisible corona around me.

I heard a muffled shriek, a loud snap, and a whizzing streak. The bolt deflected harmlessly off my hotly-burning magickal shield into the ground. 

I could nearly hear it, the weight of the ancient dragon's thoughts, as it considered. Then-- 

"Losei nahlaas fah nu." _**You are alive... for now.**_ A amused snort, thought it speech was slow and weary: "Hi ni zok onik, dovahkiine-- kren praani nu denek keizaal." _**Unwise, my kin, to break my deathly slumber, as I rest beneath the soil of Skyrim.**_

"Drem," I soothed. "Ni tiid. Praan ko drem." _**Peace. It is not time. Sleep in peace.**_

Slowly, the presence under the mound receded, and we were two again instead of three. 

"I think he feels the same way I do: Leave him alone," I counseled, without raising my head or opening my eyes. "He wants to rest." 

Would that I could do the same. My magicka still burned furiously, though the corona was receding quickly now as the magicka spent itself. In a few moments it went from roaring blaze to low-flickering flames to coals to burnt-black cinders. The air around me yet shimmered with great heat. I could hear the clicking of the ratchet as Marcus re-armed his mechanism. I remained still, head bowed. Eyes closed. Listening to the dragon which yet slept in death, or whatever passes for it for their kind. 

"Did it hit me?" 

I got no answer except for Marcus' odd sobbing breaths. He had moved to the other side of the dragon mound. 

"Either shoot me or put that thing up," I said. Idiot." With that my magicka gave one last little burst, flickered, and died. All of its heat receded. The air was still. 

Well. I knew what was happening to me now. Odd that I did not feel a difference. Perhaps a little more fatigued. 

"What in Bal's realm was all that?" Marcus demanded. "What were you saying?" 

I shook my head, confessing lack of knowledge. "The Words just came out of me," I confessed. "I have no idea what I said. Is it that way for you?" I tried to rise from my knees and staggered. "Pardon me," I said. "I need--" 

My senses dimmed, and I sank down in a near-faint, my head on my knees.

I was dizzy, and the pain was rising. Dammit! I reached for my magicka-- even empty there should be the little threads, which I could collect together; and-- it was all gone. I felt only a dull wave of what-should-have-been heat, and a lurch like stepping onto a missing stair. Well, it was not a good idea, but I could draw from my residuum. My mouth was dry. 

"Water?" I asked hopefully. 

"Have to go back down for it," Marcus said, curt. His hand moved to check on his remaining bolts. "What was all that?" 

"Could you see it?" I asked. Most human folk who have healing magick have little else. Perhaps Marcus' knack for healing and hedge-witchery meant he had some potential as a mage. 

"Yeah," Marcus said. Without taking his eyes off me, or lowering his weapon, he rubbed his face. "See it, smell it, hear it--I thought I was going to go blind. Were you trying to set both of us on fire?" 

"Not on purpose," I assured him. "So you don't know what that was?" And: "Were you going to shoot at me again just now?" 

"Yeah," said Marcus. "Because that was scary as fuck. And no, I don't have any idea what the hell you said. Dragon Words are dangerous. How do you know so many of them?" He frowned at me. "Your eyes are wrong. What's happening to them?" 

"Sorry," I said. "All of my illusion spells just--" I had nothing left to sustain them. "I think they all failed." 

Once again I tried to reach to tap my residuum; it was gone. I reached upwards towards the aetherial currents. Wait. Where was the aetherial magicka? Where was the lattice? Oh gods-- where was the sun? I looked toward the sky to ensure it was still present. I couldn't feel any of it; not at all. It is a difficult thing to convey how differently I now felt. The difference, perhaps, between a bucket that is empty and a bucket with its bottom knocked out. Magicka, like water, is life. Without it... My ground was... I could not find my ground. Missing. I sought for it, frantically, panic rising together with the vertigo. Loss of magicka is like having one's air cut off, it is-- 

"What IS that?" he yelped. "Why did your face go all weird?" And: "What are you? A vampire?" His voice was rising again. Swift as thought, he darted backwards, bringing his weapon to bear on me.

Of all the stupidity-- "Shut up!" I ordered, and covered my face with my hands so that it would cease to alarm him. "Stop talking. Shoot me again, I don't care. Just-- be quiet. Please." 

I listened, straining my inner eyes for even the trace of a glimmering strand; for even a hint of a whisper. I could see no magicka, not even whilst sitting in full sun. The Sea of Ghosts, roiling with magicka, should be echoing in its ancient bed, just towards the north. I could not hear it. All of the magicka of the universe was missing, else I was blind and deaf to it. 

Something about my posture must have convinced Marcus that I could pose no threat. Since I did not require to be murdered right at that moment, he fired the bolt beyond me into the grass. Then he sighed, cranked the mechanism to re-prime the weapon, and slung it without reloading it. 

Out of sheer morbid curiosity I asked what he thought had gone wrong with my eyes. Maybe they'd gone all black, like a dremora's-- bah. Was that all it was? Was he really so unfamiliar with Altmer? What a child.

"It's a mark of my House," I grudged him. "Some Altmeri eye colors are distinctive. I was warned that mine could be alarming." Apparently so. "I paid to have them altered-- Kind of a set-it-and-forget-it illusion," I said. "Cosmetic. We do them all the time in Alinor. Runs off residual magicka. Looks like it stopped working when my magicka burned off." I managed another false smile: "Nothing to worry about." 

Plenty to worry about, if I did not have enough magicka to sustain a mere cosmetic spell. Non-magickal folk can wear those, because those spells draw from ground-rootlets or are tagged to the aetherial currents. If I could not-- I tried again to sense my magicka. Nothing. Starless night. Utter silence. Oh gods, I was lost. 

"Cosmetic magick," Marcus said, consideringly. 

"Yes," I said, seizing upon the distraction. "There are different styles, and different modes. So you pick the mode you like-- or design one-- and sit down with the mages to discuss the colors and so on; and they craft it and fit it on you." 

Marcus stared at me, incredulous. 

In a strangled voice, he said: "Sooo...that means you chose... to look like that?" 

Righteous fury carries its own inborn strength, I have found. I managed to straighten myself into a posture of greater dignity. 

"I did not merely choose it," I informed him, coldly. "I designed it." An exaggeration, but an excusable one. While I favor a fairly standard mode, one of the eight and forty, I did work to customize it. All that the Illusion mage I hired had to do was the hands-on portion. 

Marcus lowered his guard and came closer, curious. "So-- um. Altmer mages can make you look like whatever you want?" 

"Yes." 

"Why didn't you choose to look, um, a bit less--" He made some unflattering hand movements. Scruffy, I translated. 

"I was in training to be a field agent," I said, crossly. Not some finger-cymballed temple dancer or Nibenese catamite. 

Jone was rising in the east; I reached to her. Nothing. No magicka welling from the ground; no magicka raining down in infinitesimal currents from the sky. Maybe the dragon mound was somehow interfering? That could be it, yes. Such a powerful magickal creature; the lifeless ground, the disruption in Time, yes. That must be it. I took a few more breaths to calm myself. A few more moments and I would move away and try again.

Marcus continued to pester me with impertinent questions. 

"Superficial beauty can be bought cheap," I reproved. "Do you think me so lacking in funds?" He didn't get it. "I have to be able to pass in a crowd. And here in Skyrim, it would have to be a crowd of men. not mer. So--" I gestured. "Nothing to draw the eye." 

Huh." Marcus walked around me again, considering. "Whatever you want?" he asked again. "Your mages, they can do this?" 

"Not like you're thinking. It's a process. It can take a couple of weeks. Very expensive. Unpleasant." 

Marcus visibly lost interest and went back to prowl around the dragon mound. My dizziness was not getting better. I did not think I could stand yet. 

I attempted it anyway, and sat back down too quickly. 

Oh that hurt.

"Where IS your magicka?" Marcus asked, sharply, and came forward. 

"You saw it go," I said. "That was it. It's all gone." 

He raised his hand to me. "Don't," I said. "Don't waste your magicka, it's of no use." 

"Hold still," Marcus ordered. He set both hands to the exposed skin of my face, which was all that he could get at, due to helm and armor. "I said I would heal you." 

I grimaced; it was all that I could do to keep from pulling away. I have an intense visceral distaste for Marcus, but I endured. Once the magicka began to flow, it was all right. 

Marcus' magicka is nothing like the rest of him. He is a murky mixed-up creature to the inward eye; but his magicka is as cold and clean as a snow-melt river; as pure and subtle a hue as the edges of the sky. It is all the colors of blue and white commingled; it is-- I sighed as a great deal of the pain faded. And I could feel where I was now, the magicka flowing along its proper channels; my center; my ground. Sky above me. 

After a few moments of concentration, the tendrils of magicka flowing from his hands ceased. Marcus backed away to scrutinize me anew. "I don't know what's wrong with you," he said. "But it's sucking down all my magicka. That's very bad." He frowned. 

"I fear so," I said, and went back to resting my face in my hands. Marcus was correct; the magicka he had poured into me had runnelled away and was gone. I was blind and deaf again to the inner world. "I wanted to get to where I could see a Restoration mage who knew what they were doing. It's beyond my power."

Marcus made a disparaging noise. 

"I can heal too," I said sharply. "I had some training. I was pretty good at it. Before all this." 

"Were you healing yourself?" he questioned. "Because that is really, really stupid--" 

I raised a weary hand. "Look," I said, more patiently than Marcus deserved. "I was by myself, all right? It was--" I took a pained breath. "It was deal with it or lie down and die. I just kind of wrapped it up and went on. That's why I need to get to Winterhold. It's..." I rubbed my side again, and tried to keep my face still. "It's why I got a bit upset when Ma'dran said we were going to stay to loot the ship." For the others, it had meant a few days' inconvenient delay. For me, it was going to mean-- well. I exhaled slowly. 

No sense dwelling on it. We should probably move on. 

"Was all that..." Marcus paused. "Was that cloud of fire thing that just happened to you-- was that magicka burn?" He took a few more cautious steps away. 

"Think so," I admitted. 

"Had better get someone," he said after watching me for a few more minutes, his fingers tapping against his thigh. 

"Don't worry about it," I told Marcus. "I think maybe I can walk down on my own if you give me a few moments." 

With his help, I was able to rise to my feet. I moved about, cautiously. Something else seemed off. I stepped behind a rock, as if seeking nature's ease, and had a look. I saw the green-purple-yellow of bruise. Damn. The injuries I had concealed for so long were fully visible. As if over these intervening weeks they had not healed at all. Every living creature has magicka. With insufficient magicka, the body cannot heal itself at all. All of my magicka had been diverted to my most serious injury, but now... I had none left. Being in magicka-burn meant that the buffer of my residuum was gone, too. Which meant that even if I could find the leys and nodes, tapping a node would kill me as dead as everything else in my vicinity. Even a magicka potion might be enough to set off the flames again. I shuddered.

"I can walk," I said again, when Marcus prompted me.

We got about halfway down the hill, when I stopped to look out over the glimmering beauty of the Sea of Ghosts. "Could you do me a favor?" I asked him. "Afraid I have nothing to barter for it." 

"Whatever you need." Marcus was being unusually agreeable. Perhaps he was hoping I wouldn't mention the missing bolts? 

"I don't know how this is going to go for me," I said. "This could all come to nothing--" 

Marcus appraised me with a swift dubious glance: "Magicka burn?"

"I'll try to stay away from others in case my magicka bursts off like that again. I don't think it will. It's not renewing. Can't feel my ground. But-- um. This only matters if something should happen--" 

Marcus nodded. 

"My illusion spells were hiding--um." That too-brilliant shimmer on the horizon was going to hold my full attention for a few moments; I was not about to meet his gaze. "It's silly," I said. "Kind of an embarrassment to me, that's all." If my brief glimpse had served, the bruising would be spectacular and what had happened would be obvious. "If something should, ah--" I tried to wet my dry lips. "Um. Happen to me, I don't want anyone taking off my armor, understand? Tell Ma'dran it's cultural reasons. He can't argue with that." 

Ma'dran had promised not to sell information about me to the Thalmor, but any deal dies with its maker. And while I had no care left for myself, I did not want any of this getting back to my family. As some 'unfortunate accident' suffered whilst sampling some perverted delight on frolic, no doubt. My poor mother. No. 

"Nice hot fire would be best," I said. 

"If it comes to that," said Marcus, grimly. I was relieved to see that I would not have to draw him a map. 

Why was he so very-- oh. I said, more quietly: "Don't go making attributions to the wrong source. I am quite certain Ahtar has discerned--it is only that--" I took a breath. "Seeing is different. I do not want him to see it." 

Marcus grimaced, but his tension had eased somewhat: "Got it." 

"Doubt you'll need to worry about it," I said. "I'll be fine." 

We walked for about another quarter-mile, Marcus slowing himself considerably to match my lagging pace. "Why'd we climb all the way up here, anyways?" I grumbled. "You could have shot me back at camp." Marcus gave me a hand up out of the chuck-hole I had stumbled into. 

"Well, we had this little disagreement over whether you'd casted a glamourie on my uncle--" he began. Heh. 

"Won't that be fun," I wheezed. "For me. When we get back. Cause it'll have diss-- dissi-- be gone." I hesitated. Had I cast some illusion-spell on Ahtar? My memory failed me. I hoped not. Wait-- was Marcus was mocking me, again? I glared at the back of his cropped head. 

"Ma'dran says you really are a Thalmor," Marcus said. He'd stopped and waited for me, damn him. "But Sev--" Severus was the half-scalped Imperial--"thinks you're an illusion mage and that you've been bullshitting us, 'cause you don't sound like you're from Summerset. Chorral or the southern Kreath, he says." 

Another novel theory. I accorded it the respect it deserved: a few short words. 

"Pretty sure your first language is Cyrodiilic," Marcus observed, ignoring my outburst. He'd been listening in, damn him. He accurately read my expression: "Could hear you all over camp. Also you had all those garbage illusions. Covered with layers and layers of them." 

Garbage? I thought it had been pretty good work, all things--"All gone now," I said. "You must have fairly good mage-sense." 

"It's so annoying," Marcus said. "Like being on skooma all the time, I guess. But I can find things others can't. Keeps me fed." 

"Good you have a knack, else I'd not recommend--" a sharp catch; I was forced to exhale slowly "-- investigative work." I was trying to moderate the discomfort. "Spoken-form Altmeris is as dead as the Second Era." I ought to send my elocution-master my regards. To think she'd had so little faith in me. "Any other little observations you'd like to discuss? Love to hear more." Really, it was almost like having Gilgondoron back again. I frowned. Was I remembering that idiot with fondness? Maybe it was fever. I felt both too hot and too cold. Certainly, dwelling on that ridiculous conceit would help keep my mind off more uncomfortable things. Such as, could I still move this foot in front of the other? I could. I started moving forward again. 

At our next rest break, Marcus asked a question. I lifted my head. As I said, righteous fury lends new strength. 

"Ahtar wouldn't tell you that?" I was astounded and appalled. I had not thought Ahtar capable of such cruelty. "Jala's safe," I said. "Saw her to a ship before we left." 

Marcus demanded further details. 

"Wait," I cautioned. "Thinking." I shut my eyes to review my memories of the ship. I'd seen only its dockside; its cargo hold, and its decking. Where would the name be for a Nord ship be painted-- ah. "Ship's name was obscured by piles of nets and I think he did that on purpose," I reported. "Quartermaster named Thonnar. Clever bastard. Had stripped off the bow decoration and no bunting either. Managed to cast off and get away past the Stormcloak harbor guard and the longships." I ran down the lists of names of ships; of types of ships-- I did not have it. "Carvel-built. Double-masted, square-rigged. I'm sorry," I said wearily. "I have not seen all these Nord ships yet. You people build all these different kinds. It was ocean-going for sure. But looked like it normally does short hops along the High Rock kingdoms-- it was full of produce. Dumped most of it on Solitude dock and took off without payment." 

Marcus didn't know the significance of that. 

"That means it was Jala's own ship or she'd paid well for passage," I explained. "And they were most assuredly headed west, not east. With a crew plenty alert for trouble." I looked him over. "You-- you care about her, don't you?" I asked. 

Marcus stood up and tugged roughly at his ridiculous forelock. "Yeah," he said. "Jala's the only member of my family who isn't a complete piece of shit or waste of time." He continued to scowl at me. "I thought you'd done something to her. Convinced my uncle-- I don't know. He's lost his mind." 

"I wish Jala could be here too," I agreed. Maybe she could talk sense into Ma'dran. And I agreed with Marcus that Ahtar had lost his mind. 

Marcus said something rude. 

"Shows what you know," I said. "All Jala's idea. Actually told me to do it. Ordered me, really. Ask her." 

From his mutterings, I do not think that Marcus believed me. But it was all true enough for me to take comfort in. Go to him. Get him out of here. Any way you can. I had redeemed-- I frowned. Had I completed the assignment that I had been given? I couldn't quite recall. I began to review Jala's instructions again. 

Marcus started walking.

We went on.

"Huh!" Marcus grabbed at my forearm. I turned to see it-- a full double arc, framing Jone-in-the-fullness-of-beauty as she rose above Dawnstar. 

"Do Nords think that a good-- ah?" I asked, trying not to gasp. What was the word? "Omen." Turning sharply had been a mistake. 

"Means there's more rain coming in," Marcus observed sourly. He made a rude gesture at Kyne's early-morning sky. 

We went on. 

"If the worst happens," Marcus said-- he had come to some resolution: "I will need help. And I do not know what will happen, if one of us... I will have to tell Alfgar." 

I looked at Marcus in utter non-comprehension. Who in Oblivion was Alfgar?

Then I choked. 

"Is-- is that his name?" I managed. 

Marcus looked aggrieved. It was too much. I had to lean over and press my hands against my abdomen so that my stifled laughter would not hurt. 

"What?" demanded Marcus. 

"Alfgar," I wheezed. That was the name, of our glorious Dovahkiin? Sweet Mara, I couldn't contain the laughter. It emitted from me in undignified little snorts. "Elf-spear?! Ah ha ha.. is that why he doesn't go by it?" 

"Yeah well, elves aren't exactly all" Marcus waved his hands-- au courant, I translated--"just now, thanks to you Thalmor jackasses," Marcus said, irritated. "So what's so funny?" 

"He--ah-- know what 'spear' means, to mer? Do you?" I can also make explanatory gestures.

"Not till now," Marcus said, pleased. 

Perhaps Marcus ought read up on Dunmeri theology. Of the sort which gets passed surreptitiously along from desk to desk in boarding school.

"Why does the poor man not go by his clan name or placename?" I asked. 

"Because his clan name is Stormcloak, and he happens to be from Eastmarch," Marcus said. He was still grinning. 

"So--" Laughter threatened again. "Huh," I said, recovering. "He kin to--" 

"Yeah, yeah, Ulfric. Says they're far-sibs. Some kind of cousin, I guess. Didn't seem real close." 

"Small wonder he goes by that ridiculous--" I choked again. "Eke-name." I was finally able to straighten enough to walk. But then the giggles resurfaced: "And now I know why you keep him around," I added, pausing to negotiate my way over a small drop-off. 

"Don't flatter yourself." Marcus reached up to help hand me down. 

"Oh, I'm not flattering, hmmm, myself specifically," I said. "It's a species divergence-- plenty of natural variation, I'm sure. But, it is just another of the many ways in which merkind are superior to mankind" 

"Yeah?" Marcus challenged. "Isn't that just admitting that all of you are giant pricks?" Marcus' remarks about elves with delusions of self-importance and the various deficiencies that he had encountered amongst them carried us all the way down to the base of the low hill. At some point my laughter stopped. I had to focus wholly on the walk, on getting one foot to follow another. A little after that, I tripped on a root. Marcus came back to where I was huddled on the ground. 

" 'm all right," I gasped. "Just help me back up."

We went on under the brooding sky. More rain to come, oh joy. 

I stumbled half a step when I was about twenty yards behind Marcus, and just like that the pain swooped back down upon me, its talons drawing deep. I staggered, and recovered. I could do this. Another fifty yards. Another hundred yards. That tree stump there; I fixed my eyes upon it; I would continue to there and then I could rest. I could find a new landmark to fix my gaze upon. We had been out here for days. I could find the camp. 

It was difficult going. I couldn't stand up all the way. I was too dizzy to walk straight and couldn't see properly. I couldn't keep from reaching out with magicka sense for the ley which would assist me-- it was all gone. 

I got to the tall stump and clutched onto it to hold myself upright. 

"Where was Jala going?" Marcus persisted. "What ship?" 

"Dunno," I said. Had he asked me this before? Had I not answered, three or four times previous? "Tomatoes. Stop shaking me! ...Lilla," I remembered. "Lilla and Juls. Got the book away clean. Is Ulfwulf not kiss-assy? Really? Forty boxes leeks-- three septims." I frowned. Wait, was that correct? 

Why was Marcus continuing to pester me? I needed to think. 

Marcus scrabbled around and pulled at a strap, tugging my helmet free from my head. I complained, because now I risked dirt in my eyes. More soothing pale-blue light, just a trace, and the red-black waves of pain receded. 

"Listen to me," Marcus directed. 

His forelock was straggling into his eyes. I was sorely tempted to advise him that he was out of conformance; but then everything about Marcus is out of conformance, his training officer must be in despair. Marcus is a veritable walking cloud of demerits. I would have to speak to the First Emissary after bringing her nightly cup of wine; speak of him as if he were amusing to us, that would do it, she enjoys private jokes. If she thought he were funny, she would leave him alone. She tolerates Gilgondoron, after all. She tolerates--even if barely--me. Oh, now Marcus was making demands again, that was precious. I would ignore him. 

Marcus shook me, harder: "You have to help me, alright?"

I scoffed at him. "Nobody can help you," I said. 

My eyes closed.

I startled. 

"Just resting," I said immediately.

Ahtar grunted. "Yeah? Stay down," he advised. His hand kept me there. 

That was fine. I wasn't sure where my helmet was, anyways. It would be better to find it and put it on before Uluwie got back, because she would surely report my being out of uniform. I would be docked-- 

Ahtar began to brush the dirt off my face.

Marcus came trotting up. "Is he still--" 

"Yeah," said Ahtar. "Not doing real good, though. You get the cats--" 

"Khajiit," I tried to say, because that would be another demerit. My voice was too thick. 

"Sheshemarjo's coming," said Marcus. "Here-- get him to take some." He knelt. The water he tried to trickle into my mouth held an unpleasant taste; it had picked up some odor from the waterskin or Marcus' gloves. I couldn't swallow it and it spilled out onto the ground. 

"Back off, will you?" said Ahtar to Marcus, annoyed. 

And, to me: "Fuck's all this?" His fingers stroked down my face.

"Illusion spells," I whispered. "Sorry. I'm so sorry." I curled up tighter. "Hurts." 

"You'll be all right," Ahtar promised. Ah... that was good. 

"This what you look like at home?" he asked me, curious. 

Yes, I thought. I want you to see me as I am-- I nodded a little. His arm stayed beneath my neck, cradling my head. 

"So what's your name?" Ahtar asked, softly. For an interrogator, I thought, he was being very gentle. But some are. 

What is your name. What is your unit designation. What is the date and place of your birth registry. What is the name and registered address of your family contact. 

"Didn't lie," I managed. "Cyrelian-- there's lots of Cyrelians. I do not lie. Not to you." I wished Ahtar would take off his gloves. I wanted to feel his touch.

Who is your officer. What is your assign--

"Stay here with me, will you?" Ahtar patted me on the cheek. "Talk a little. Tell me-- tell me about your house growing up. What did it look like?" 

"Big," I said. "So many books-- 's always writing. Ink on his sleeve-- my mother..." Would pretend to be upset, mocking the tone of a dutiful housekeeper. Her indulgent look, towards me and him; the only memory that I have of the three of us together.

"Who was writing?" 

I mumbled something. 

"Your father? Hey, hey-- open your eyes." Ahtar pinched me, unpleasantly, and shook me a little to rouse me. I was so tired. 

"So what's your father's name?" 

"Gone on," I whispered. "He never wanted a House name. He said so." The pain spiked, and I gasped, but managed: "The only kinship house is that of the Dominion." 

Ahtar was rubbing the back of my neck with those gloved hands. "Who's your mother? You talk about her like she's still alive. You want me to send a message to her?" Ahtar was cozening me; it would not do. "Would the First Emissary know who your officer is?" Ahtar asked. "I know her a little, I could speak to her--" 

I shut my mouth, firmly. 

"Don't you want your family to know what happened?" Ahtar coaxed. 

But that no longer held my interest. It was no longer important. There was something else needed to be said before-- "Tell Marcus: do it," I said, subsiding. "Don't stop him." 

"Yeah?" Ahtar frowned at me. "Like to know what happened up on that hill." 

"Wasn't my fault," interrupted Marcus. "Anyways, nothing happened." He handed Ahtar a damp cloth. "Try this." Ahtar put the corner of it against my mouth, and I licked at it at once. Salt, crystallizing off from the seawater. It should have been revolting. It was delicious. "Not too much," I was immediately warned. "Here." The waterskin was given to me again. This time it was much more appealing. 

"Here," Marcus said, reaching to touch my face again. "My magicka renewed a little." He healed me more thoroughly this time. "I can't fix this whatever-it-is, that's wrong with you, so I'm sort of going around it," he told me. 

"I can't see," I said, miserably, "My magicka's all gone."

"Deal with it," advised Marcus. And, to Ahtar: "See if you can get him to take more of the water from the skin. There's a limit to what I can do." 

"Want my helmet. I can't--" I can't afford any more demerits. Out of uniform. Elen will send me home in disgrace. I tried to get at more of the salt. Ahtar let me have it. 

"Look," Ahtar said, reasonably. "I'll make you a deal. Get more of this stuff in you and I'll find your helmet for you."

Ahtar held the skin for me to drink, and true to his word he had Marcus find my helmet and sat me up to put it on my head. By this time Sheshemarjo had arrived, with what was left of his potions and powders, which he began to administer to me. There was a great deal of discussion about whether some of these things were a good idea. Marcus told him about the skooma, which made Sheshemarjo snarl under his breath thereafter. 

Ma'dran came down to look me over. Ma'dran was not pleased with this situation. 

"Know what?" Ahtar finally said to Ma'dran. "Maybe you promised to carry no tales to the Thalmor, but I didn't. I got no problem going to the First Emissary and telling her she lost one a her Justiciar pups because you cats wanted to dick around in Hjaalmarch for a month. Just to make more money. Call him a liar to his face, say he ain't sick. Say he don't need any more healing potions. We made a deal to get to Dawnstar-- and here we sit-- Maybe we never get to Dawnstar. Maybe you're not payin' us because that's your condition precedent? There's Dawnstar--" he pointed. "And we ain't fuckin' there. And you moonpath on out?" He spit. "Start callin' you Ma'dran the Dealbreaker." 

Ma'dran did not like this.

The other Khajiit present did not like it either, for different reasons. Kharjo, for one, is no employee of Ma'dran's. An argument in Ta'agra commenced. I was too exhausted to follow along. Shesemarjo kept bothering me, in Cyrodiilic, wanting to know the name of my kin. Would none of them leave off? Finally I said, in Ta'agra, hoping the humans would not comprehend me: "My father-of-rearing is Joral of Silvaarwoad, son of Emwe the Moonsinger. Remember me to them if you will." 

There was immediate silence. 

Kharjo hissed at Ma'dran: "Fool." 

They became re-embroiled in their argument. I heard the name Ri'saad several times. 

"Please not the First Emissary," I begged Ahtar. "Please." I cried out a little, from the pain again. "Dangerous." So ambitious. Dangerous. And if this situation were none of her doing-- well. She is of my family. My disgrace would tar her, too. 

Ahtar snorted. "Let the cats think I will. I got enough trouble," he said. "I think Erdi's coming down here. You got anything you want to say to her?" 

"No," I said. "Just you." 

Ahtar rather impatiently motioned the others back. For some reason Ma'dran had become exceedingly anxious to see to whatever accommodation I might need.

"What is it?" Ahtar asked. "What's so damn important? Rest." 

"Sorry, 'm so sorry--" I struggled to get up and Ahtar easily kept me in place.

"Ever'thing," I said, desperately. "That happened. To you. Jala. My fault." 

Ahtar made a noise of disbelief: "Uh-huh, all the stupid shit I did, that's your doing. No," he directed. "Stay put." He put his hand out for me and I took it with both gauntlets. "See?" he said. "You're doing better. It'll be all right. Just wait for--" 

I kept trying to interrupt, because all of this was my doing. If I had just waited for Elen to return. I could have dealt with it. Nothing would have happened to him! 

Ahtar shushed me again and finally said: "Not talking about that. You need to settle down and--" He looked up in disbelief: "Snowing? Why the fuck's it snowing?" 

Winter quickly follows summer here out on the coast of the Sea of Ghosts. If we had been counting on the weather to hold, we were out of time.

Ma'dran's prized horse was led down for me to mount. 

I drew my knees in and braced myself to endure. Every little jolt was agony but at least I could close my eyes.

"Ji'la is very happy to see you again." Why? What had Marcus gone and said? 

She helped me down from the horse and guided me to the fire.

"The snow, it is so beautiful, yes? Have you ever seen such a thing, it falling in sunlight?" There were new Khajiit in the camp, all of whom were all dressed for much warmer weather. They were working quickly.

Kharjo and his armored warriors kept an eye on the proceedings. There was a huge pile of bags and boxes and furled bedrolls and tents, at the far end of the camp. But it was not as big a pile as I would have anticipated-- it was not nighttime. But Jode was full. 

Did Ma'dran have the moonpath active now?

"If you have time to shuttle porters back and forth, you have time to get him a healing priest," said Erdi, coldly. Now she was making demands too. Ma'dran said nothing, but Kharjo turned and snapped out an order. One of his warriors walked to the back of the camp and was almost immediately out of sight. 

Minutes later a new Khajiit appeared, staring about herself in wonder.

She walked over to me, eyes slitted in pleasure. 

"This one has never been outside Elsweyr before," she marveled. "No one has told Koshimiri that snow has a spark! It tastes of magicka!" She licked a few errant flakes from her muzzle, and crouched beside me. "So-- what troubles you, kynd?" Her hands brought a wash of relief. 

I explained-- the injury; the involuntary healing; the hurried flight from the city. And how I could no longer see or hear or touch magicka. Koshimiri sighed. Someone had taken my gauntlets. She was holding my hand. "We can do a little, yes?" 

When I came back to myself I was resting with my head in Koshimiri's lap; she was absently grooming my hair. I could feel the ley-lines again; feel the minute sparks of the snowflakes as they carried the reflection of magicka down from the sky; the Sea of Ghosts a distant, comforting rumble. Koshimiri was purring to me--there was a little song in it, one I can never quite remember.

"Koshmiri has no shame to say this is beyond her skill." Her whiskers were lowered, and the tips of her ears. "We do not deal much with mer in Rimmen. Koshmiri has spoken to a few, yes, but her learning has only been from books. Where are your kin? Your loved ones?" 

Homesickness stabbed me: "Half a world away," I answered, sadly. "And there are no mer here I trust."

"So moonpath that one back home to his kindred," suggested Ma'dran, sourly. "He will become no longer our problem." It was not a serious suggestion. Moonpathing to Alinor is not permitted. Absolutely it is not. 

Koshimiri flattened her ears. "Fah! Enough-- this is not a joking matter." She leaned down to me. "Does this one wish to write a letter?" I did not. How many months had it been since my last? And what was there that I could say? No. 

"Cyrelian was trying to get to the College of Winterhold," said Erdi. "They train healer-mages there, don't they?" She wiped at my face again. "Please?" she said. "I think if we could get him there they could help. It's only a couple of days from here by boat. Maybe less." 

Koshimiri sighed. "One can lend strength, but it will pass quickly, yes? Do not overdo it. Do not even begin to try to use magicka." 

So she worked on me, and what she did was not appreciably different than what Marcus had done, or what I had done. It was no cure; it merely staved off the day; she warned me that the day was coming soon. When she was finished, and I no longer shared in her magicka, I was blind and deaf to it again, even the aetherial currents. It is an odd sensation to feel snow without its spark. 

"See if there is the ability to stand," Koshmiri instructed.

Ahtar grasped my cuirass and hauled me to my feet. I took a wavering couple of steps and gripped his arm for balance until the world settled. My vision had gone hazy, and I didn't trust my legs, so I leaned into him.

"We're getting a boat," said Ahtar. "Don't you argue. We're taking the horses down to the beach; the boat down to Dawnstar, and then you and I are sailing to Winterhold. Understand?"

Of course I argued-- where had this boat come from? 

There was a long story, something about a packhorse which had unaccountably wandered away; and a large Nord, with a correspondingly enormous name, whom no one could find. 

Ahtar was insistent.

"Take me to Winterhold, then," I conceded. "But once I am there, you will go."

"Been thinking-- I got something to say about that."

"I ain't fuckin' leaving."

I gripped Ahtar's hair and tugged at it, in remonstration: Don't be stupid. 

"Don't care," he said stubbornly. "Going with you." 

I recall wishing to press the matter further. To explain. How my mistakes had done this to him; to his family; to his whole life. But I was so tired. Ahtar got me back up onto the horse and began to lead it down to the beach. 

It is all flashes thereafter, brief glimmers through the darkness--

There was a boat, and a chair for Ahtar, and a laughing boisterous Nord who was thanking a Leif Wayfinder for his service. 

And Marcus was talking to the Dovahkiin again now, saying-- "Three of us now, assuming--" He was wary, as if the Dovahkiin would be annoyed at him, but that worthy simply laughed again: "Nuz aan sul fent alok," Alfgar the Dovhakiin whispered, and the boat tremored. "A day shall arise, " he said, happily. "More of us to hunt dragons before they hunt us, that is a good thing, yes?" 

Dovahkinne. I knew what it meant now and shivered. Three of us.

Erdi thought Alfgar's attempt to mimick Khajiit-speech very funny. Marcus grumbled. 

I drifted away again.

The sound of the water as we passed from the Sea of Ghosts to inside the first breakwater...so odd whilst magicka-deaf. Once the sky cleared the day was brilliant and beautiful.

Without magicka-sense I could not quite tell how near we were to the city.

Erdi pointed out the first houses. Or-- was that the inn? 

"Finally," muttered Ahtar. "Get some decent food and an ale. Anything other than broth and dried fish."

I was sat down upon the deck; Marcus pointed out the bathing-house. I gathered it would be one of his first stops. A dark-haired figure stepped out of the house next door and Marcus tensed. 

"Silus!" called the Dovahkiin, cheerfully, and waved. The red-robed Imperial returned his greeting. 

Marcus made a noise that sounded very much like an offended Khajiit.

Erdi said she would go on ahead: we needed supplies and clothing, badly.

Ahtar and Marcus and Erdi got me to the baths. 

There was a brief problem when I declined to have my armor removed; but Ahtar made everyone else go, and let me be to wash. A couple of times he knocked on the door to be sure I was all right; and I knocked back to let him know I was. I managed, if slowly. There was plenty of soap and hot water and at least my hair was still so short that it was no trouble to wash it. 

Someone opened the door and put clothes inside the threshold for me. There were even soft-soled shoes.

I rested whilst the men bathed and then they took me back to the inn. 

Another priest of Mara was there-- a Dunmer-- and he spoke with me for some time, though I do not recall our conversation. Ahtar told me later that the priest healed me, too, but I do not remember it. 

I did overhear what Marcus told the Dovahkiin-- ah ha ha-- Alfgar of Eastmarch, Alfgar Stormcloak; Alfgar the Dovahkiin. 

The big Nord limped across the room and stood over me, glowering down. Or pretending to glower, I thought. I could see the humor glinting through, like his teeth through his beard. He was grinning. "Think me not so unredeful," he said, carefully settling in a chair beside me and propping his foot up. "My mother's niece-in-law is Dunmeris. There was never any end to the jokes." 

And, with an inclination of his head towards the direction of Marcus: "You know that he is god-touched? Take not his sayings to heart. Nor his threats."

"He tried to wake the dragon," I confessed. "It spoke to us, but did not rise." Well, that raised his shaggy brows. Ahtar, sitting nearby at a table, looked thunderous. "Also he shot a bolt at me," I admitted. "I do not think he had planned to kill me. He did fire the next bolt aside. And I think we are now reconciled. But--" I shrugged. 

Alfgar the Dovahkiin was silent a bit, and "Mead-months should be longer. He and I will speak on't." 

"This thing inside me, the dragon-soul that Speaks," I said. "What will happen to it should I--?" 

His face lost all good humor: "Try not to," he advised. And: "We do not know."

"You are getting up," said Erdi. "And you are going to help us get you on that boat." 

Why was she so angry with me? I didn't understand. Where was my armor? I was going to be in a lot of trouble. Erdi was going to be in a lot of trouble--I tried to ask-- why was she not wearing her helmet? Where were her gauntlets? I was failing as a training officer. Wasn't I?

"You will get there," Erdi said, with an unwarranted degree of severity. 

She and Ahtar spoke softly for awhile. Then, the two of them got their arms under mine and heaved me up to my feet, half-carrying me up to the deck.

Ahtar and I were on our way to Winterhold. 

Erdi did not go on the ship with us; she and Marcus went on a needful errand, I was told. Erdi is a better adventurer than I. At any rate, she returned from her travels in good health and with great success, which is more than I had managed.

I have no words, sometimes. 

Ahtar thought me to be raving in extremis.

But I knew. 

Had I resisted what I thought to be Dibella's lure, and gone alone to my bed that night at the Embassy; or thereafter ingratiated myself sufficiently to First Emissary Elenwen or to Ambassador Orondil, no one would have dared touch me. 

Had I put in a request to go home-- or even gained enough fortitude to roam further from the environs of the Thalmor Embassy-- I would have been spared the further attentions of Hinnaro and his minions. Had I not panicked, Hinnaro might not have swung his warhammer; and my docility might have convinced him later that I didn't warrant killing. 

So Hinnaro's stripped corpse would not have been discovered in an allegedly-secure chamber back at Northwatch Keep. Nor would three other well-ventilated Thalmor have been left by Penitus Oculatus for the Embassy staff to discover. Ambassador Orondil would have had no cause to complain to General Tullius about lawless men infesting Western Haafingar, and the Imperial troops stationed in Solitude would not have been sent on a wild goose-chase through the Druadachs looking for Stormcloak encampments or Forsworn. 

Without those deaths, Orondil would not have bestirred himself concerning my absence-- certainly not enough to send Thalmor canvassing through the city pounding on doors looking for me, which had roused its populace to riot. Northwatch Keep would not have been too busy frantically reviewing its security protocols to accept a luckless Roggvir, who would have met a quieter fate. 

Under Tullius' gaze, the Nords of Haafingar Guard would do no more than vent mutterings of treason into their cups of mead. If at all. 

Watch-commander Jorluf would be standing his shifts in all amity beside Head Jailor Ahtar. 

Jala would continue to hold court from her vegetable stall, and to continue with her efforts to rebuild their personal fortune. Their house would not have been burnt. Jala and Ahtar would not be fugitives on their way to refuge in Cyrodiil or begging personal pardon from the Stormcloak. A certain palace maid would continue to dream, sweeping her marble floors in peace. 

Solitude would remain: a nearly-impregnable fortress and a bastion of Imperial might. 

From what we had seen of the passing ships, Solitude yet stood-- but we knew not what chaos had been wreaked in the city. As of yet, Ulfric Stormcloak's little revolt had been swift, glorious, and bloodless. That would now change. Even an ineffectual punch to the throat makes a brawler more wary. 

Men and mer alike, they die in war. Or at least their mortal husks do. It is no part of my burden to carry that. But for them to have their lives wasted to such inexcusably unprofessional clumsiness-- well, that is unbecoming. Thalmor do not operate like this. We gather knowledge. We make the appropriate provision and history obeys, unfolding into its appropriate shape. Shepherds that unnecessarily slaughter their sheep? Poor planning and ill done. 

Ahtar refused to listen. He held my head on his lap. I tried to tell him what further association with me would bring him, but he would not hear it. He said that he did not care. He said that it did not matter. Would not matter. Ancestors help me, I can never heed any directives, not even my own. I was bound to him now, for all that Mara could never bless it. So all I could do on that wretched ship was lie still and listen to that bond, for with my magicka gone and my inward eyes nearly blinded, it was all that kept me oriented; it was all that kept me sane. Ahtar's fingers rubbed at my hair. He spoke to me in that low rumble of his, soothing me. 

Small missteps matter not at all-- unless one happens to be standing at the precipice. 

One trivial consequence of my ill-advised deeds is this: it shall be decades now before I can come home for more than a handful of months at a time. I could have walked a well-paved road; it seems it is in me to blaze a new path. And another consequence, far greater: Sentiment has turned in my hand more than once, and bitten me. There was a choice I could have made, and did not, and I--well. I lacked the rigor. 

So. 

I am still here. We are still here. 

So passes the fate of the world, at the hand of such trivial events: a sidelong glance 'twixt mer and man; a broken latch; a slip of the foot in wet leaves; a doused bonfire. 

I am-- I am alive because that one is dead. 

It could have been one such as Hinnaro to direct the operations of the Thalmor here in Skyrim. For good or ill, that lot has fallen to me. I will not lower myself to act as a beast.

Praise to Oghma that I may yet recount my deeds to the glory of my ancestors and my name. Auriel grant his blessings upon us, that we may advance along his path of wisdom in his steps, ere we unweave the cloth of the world and rewind its thread. Stars in his wake, we will come home. 

May the Day come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story will continue with Erdi's separate adventures in The Golden Knight, as she goes on towards the adventure she's always dreamed about. 
> 
> Justiciar Cyrelian will be back with us in future installments, never fear.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Spiney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiney/pseuds/spiney),[raunchyandpaunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raunchyandpaunchy/pseuds/raunchyandpaunchy), and [Tyranidlord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranidlord/pseuds/Tyranidlord) for all their help and support!


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